o thou who’s face hath felt the winter’s wind 

 

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.

 

( John Keats, 1818 )

 

 

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