John Keats wrote:
"Where are the songs of Spring?"
Who "singest of summer in full-throated ease?"

"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."

Who sings the autumntide?
To autumn, to autumn goes the praise!
The "season of mists and mellow fruitfulness."

The hordes of all manner of bugs caught
"Among the river sallows, borne aloft
        Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies."

Autumn has her way with them all.
And she is coming, so hail the queen
   in leafy crown of yellow, orange, and brown.

For we will find "The loveliest and the last,
The bloom, whose petals nipped before they blew
Died on the promise of the fruit" in winter.