John Keats

 

 

 

 

 

 

       What the Thrush Said

 

O thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind,

Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist,

And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars!

To thee the spring will be a harvest time.

O thou whose only book has been the light

Of supreme darkness, which thou feddest on

Night after night, when Phoebus was away!

To thee the spring shall be a triple morn.

O fret not after knowledge.  I have none,

And yet my song comes native with the warmth.

O fret not after knowledge!  I have none.

And yet the evening listens.  He who saddens

At thought of idleness cannot be idle,

And he's awake who thinks himself asleep.