"Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul."
"O let me lead her gently o'er the brook, Watch her half-smiling lips and downward look; O let me for one moment touch her wrist; Let me one moment to her breathing list; And as she leaves me, may she often turn Her fair eyes looking through her locks auburne."
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Source: John Keats, Helen Vendler (1990). “Poetry Manuscripts at Harvard”, p.36, Harvard University Press
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