[John Keats poem]
After dark vapours have oppressed 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, relieving from 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.
And calmest thoughts come round us as of leaves
Budding fruit ripening in stillness autumn suns
Smiling at eve upon the quiet sheaves
Sweet Sappho's cheek a sleeping infant's breath
The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs
A woodland rivulet a Poet's death.
This lyric was posted anonymously. Not yet confirmed by Book of Metal.
