"Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul."
"Nor do we merely feel these essences for one short hour no, even as these trees that whisper round a temple become soon dear as the temples self, so does the moon, the passion posey, glories infinite, Haunt us till they become a cheering light unto our souls and bound to us so fast, that wheather there be shine, or gloom o'er cast, They always must be with us, or we die."
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Source: 'Endymion' (1818) bk. 1, l. 33
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