John Keats

St Agnes' Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold.

St Agnes' Eve--Ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold.

When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
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When all the birds are faint with the hot sun,
And hide in cooling trees, a voice will run
From hedge to hedge about the new-mown mead;
That is the grasshopper's--he takes the lead
In summer luxury--he has never done
With his delights, for when tired out with fun,
He rests at ease beneath some pleasant weed.

The poppies hung
Dew-dabbed on their stalks.

The poppies hung
Dew-dabbed on their stalks.

Through the dancing poppies stole
A breeze most softly lulling to my soul.

Through the dancing poppies stole
A breeze most softly lulling to my soul.