How beautiful the season is now – How fine the air. A temperate sharpness about it. Really, without joking, chaste weather – Dian skies – I never lik’d stubble fields so much as now – Aye better than the chilly green of spring. Somehow a stubble plain looks warm – in the same way that some pictures look warm – this struck me so much in my Sunday’s walk that I composed upon it.
John Keats in a letter to his friend J.H. Reynolds.
Keats wrote “To Autumn” on September 19, 1819, at the height of his skill. He had just returned from a stroll near the town of Winchester in Hampshire, England.