"Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul."
"I wish you could invent some means to make me at all happy without you. Every hour I am more and more concentrated in you; everything else tastes like chaff in my mouth."
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Source: Letter to Fanny Brawne, August 1820, in H. E. Rollins (ed.) 'The Letters of John Keats' (1958) vol. 2, p. 311
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