"Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul."
"I stood tip-toe upon a little hill, The air was cooling, and so very still, That the sweet buds which with a modest pride Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, Their scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems, Had not yet lost those starry diadems Caught from the early sobbing of the morn."
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Source: John Keats, Helen Vendler (1990). “Poetry Manuscripts at Harvard”, p.32, Harvard University Press
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