Als Minerva, jenen Liebling,
Den Prometheus zu begünstgen,
Eine volle Nektarschale
von dem Himmel niederbrachte,
Seine Menschen zu beglücken
Und den Trieb zu holden Künsten
Ihrem Busen einzuflößen,
Eilte sie mit schnellen Füßen,
Daß sie Jupiter nicht sähe;
Und die goldne Schale schwankte,
Und es viele Wenig Tropfen
Auf den grünen Boden nieder.

Emsig waren drauf die Bienen
Hinterher und saugten fleißig;
Kam der Schmetterling geschäftig,
auch ein Tröpfchen zu erhaschen;
Selbst die ungestalte Spinne
Kroch herbei und sog gewaltig.

Glücklich haben sie gekostet,
Sie und andre zarte Tierchen!
Denn sie teilen mit dem Menschen
Nun das schönste Glück, die Kunst.

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-eaves run;
To bend with apples the moss’d cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell 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;
For Summer has o’erbrimm’d their clammy cells.

Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap’d furrow sound asleep,
Drowsed with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.

Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too,—
While barrèd 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 redbreast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.