What the Thrush Said John Keats 1795 –1821 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 lightOf supreme darkness which thou feddest onNight 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 saddensAt thought of idleness cannot be idle,And he’s awake who thinks himself asleep.

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