John Keats

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.

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.

And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest
The silver clouds.
- John Keats,

And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest
The silver clouds.
- John Keats,

In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer read more

In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy brook,
Thy bubblings ne'er remember
Apollo's summer look;
But with a sweet forgetting,
They stay their crystal fretting,
Never, never petting
About the frozen time.

But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?

But were there ever any
Writhed not at passed joy?