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 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 the thought of idleness cannot be idle,

And he’s awake who thinks himself asleep.

(i know the featured image isn’t a thrush, but a wren looks better)

Here’s a wood-thrush from my feeder.