240 THE LOG OF THE SUN 



comes threadbare and the last migrants have 

 flown, that our northern visitors begin to take a 

 prominent place in our avifauna. 



Season of mists and mellow f ruitf ulneae I 

 Close bosom friend of the maturing son; 



Where are the songs of spring? Ay, where are they? 



Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, 

 While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 

 And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; 

 Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 

 Among the river-sallows, borne aloft 



Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies; 

 And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn; 

 Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft 

 The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft, 

 And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 



JOHN KEATS. 



