by John Keats
After dark vapors have oppress’d our plains
For a long dreary season, comes a day
Born of the gentle South, and clears away
From the sick heavens all unseemly stains.
The anxious month, relieved of its pains,
Takes as a long-lost right the feel of May;
The eyelids with the passing coolness play
Like rose leaves with the drip of Summer rains.
The calmest thoughts came round us; as of leaves
Budding– fruit ripening in stillness– Autumn suns
Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves–
Sweet Sappho’s cheek– a smiling infant’s breath–
The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs–
A woodland rivulet– a Poet’s death.