The Complete Letters and Poems of John Keats

V I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,  Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs, But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;  Fast fading violets cover?d up in leaves;       And mid-May?s eldest child,  The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,  The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves Ode to Nightingale... leia mais