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The Thrush
par
John Keats
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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
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