O thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind, <br />Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist <br />And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars, <br />To thee the spring will be a harvest-time. <br />O thou, whose only book has been the light <br />Of supreme darkness which thou feddest on <br />Night after night when Phoebus was away, <br />To thee the Spring shall be a triple morn. <br />O fret not after knowledge -- I have none, <br />And yet my song comes native with the warmth. <br />O fret not after knowledge -- I have none, <br />And yet the Evening listens. He who saddens <br />At thought of idleness cannot be idle, <br />And he's awake who thinks himself asleep.<br /><br />John Keats<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/what-the-thrush-said-lines-from-a-letter-to-john-hamilton-reynolds/
