"Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul."
"Talking of Pleasure, this moment I was writing with one hand, and with the other holding to my Mouth a Nectarine - how good how fine. It went down all pulpy, slushy, oozy, all its delicious embonpoint melted down my throat like a large, beatified Strawberry."
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Source: John Keats (1820). “The Complete Works of John Keats”, p.96
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