John Keats — After dark vapors have oppressd our plains

After dark vapors 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 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 came 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.