Where are the songs of Spring? Keats poses the question near the end and then, almost tenderly, tells himself not to go looking. To Autumn came in September 1819, after he walked the harvested fields outside Winchester, ground he wrote he had never liked so well as that month. It is the last of his great odes and the only one that does not strain to be elsewhere: the Nightingale longs to dissolve into the dark and the Grecian Urn climbs off into cold philosophy, but autumn keeps both feet in the stubble. The first stanza loads the vines until they bend, the second lays the season down asleep on a half-reaped furrow, and the third gathers the choir that is left, the small gnats mourning in the willows, the full-grown lambs bleating from the hills, the swallows massing for a sky they are about to leave. He was twenty-three and had seventeen months to live, and still he does not flinch. The poem simply notices that ripeness and ending are one weather, and chooses to stay out in it.