What The Thrush Said. Lines From A Letter To John Hamilton Reynolds

by John Keats

    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.