.fragments .fugitifs

[...]
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;
[...]

To Autumn -- John Keats