"Through the dancing poppies stole A breeze, most softly lulling to my soul."
"When the melancholy fit shall fall Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud, That fosters the droop-headed flowers all, And hides the green hill in an April shroud; Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose."
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Source: 'Ode on Melancholy' (1820) st. 2
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