As he totters o’er the ground (5) Long ago— With his cane. That he had a nose, And his cheek was like a rose They say that in his In the snow; (30) Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, But now his nose is thin, Not a better man was found (10) And it rests upon his chin By the Crier on his round Like a staff, Through the town. And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack (35) But now he walks the streets, In his laugh. And looks at all he meets Sad and wan, (15) I know it is a sin And he shakes his feeble head, For me to sit and grin That it seems as if he said, At him here; are gone.” But the old three-cornered hat, (40) “They And the breeches, and all that, The mossy marbles rest Are so queer! On the lips that he has prest (20) In their bloom, And if I should live to be And the names he loved to hear The last leaf upon the tree Have been carved for many a year In the spring, (45) On the tomb. Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough My grandmamma has said— (25) Where I cling. Poor old lady, she is dead To Autumn JOHN KEATS Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, (5) And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, (10)
As he totters o’er the ground (5) With his cane. They say that in his Ere the pruning-knife of Time Cut him down, Not a better man was found (10) By the Crier on his round Through the town. But now he walks the streets, And looks at all he meets Sad and wan, (15) And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said, “They are gone.” The mossy marbles rest On the lips that he has prest (20) In their bloom, And the names he loved to hear Have been carved for many a year On the tomb. My grandmamma has said— (25) Poor old lady, she is dead Long ago— That he had a nose, And his cheek was like a rose In the snow; (30) But now his nose is thin, And it rests upon his chin Like a staff, And a crook is in his back, And a melancholy crack (35) In his laugh. I know it is a sin For me to sit and grin At him here; But the old three-cornered hat, (40) And the breeches, and all that, Are so queer! And if I should live to be The last leaf upon the tree In the spring, (45) Let them smile, as I do now, At the old forsaken bough Where I cling. To Autumn JOHN KEATS Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness, Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, (5) And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core; To the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more, And still more, later flowers for the bees, Until they think warm days will never cease, (10)
ap-poetry-handout-fall-2017-2.docx