1 Where are the songs of Spring ? Ay, where are they ? 

 Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, 

 While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day, 

 And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue ; 

 Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn 

 Among the river sallows, borne aloft 

 Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies ; 

 And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn ; 

 Hedge-crickets sing ; and now with treble soft 

 The redbreast whistles from a garden-croft, 

 And gathering swallows twitter in the skies. 1 



Keats. 



