What the Thrush Said 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 Phœbus 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.