John Keats(1795–1821) · Life, Letters, and Literary Remains, of John Keats · 1817
After dark vapours 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 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.