(Lines From A Letter To John Hamilton Reynolds, 1818)
O thou whose face hath felt the Winter's wind, Whose eye has seen the snow-clouds hung in mist, And the black elm tops 'mong the freezing stars! To thee the spring will be a harvest time. O thou whose only book has been the light Of supreme darkness, which thou feddest on Night after night, when Phoebus was away! To thee the spring shall be a triple morn. O fret not after knowledge. I have none, And yet my song comes native with the warmth. O fret not after knowledge! I have none. And yet the evening listens. He who saddens At thought of idleness cannot be idle, And he's awake who thinks himself asleep.