"Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul."
"To Hope "When by my solitary hearth I sit, And hateful thoughts enwrap my soul in gloom; When no fair dreams before my 'mind's eye' flit, And the bare heath of life presents no bloom; Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed, And wave thy silver pinions o'er my head."
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Source: John Keats (1841). “The poetical works of John Keats”, p.195
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