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Poem by John Keats
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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, relievèd 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 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 smiling infant’s breath,— The gradual sand that through an hour-glass runs,— A woodland rivulet, a Poet’s death.
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