John Keats (1795–1821)

THIS pleasant tale is like a little copse,

The honeyed lines so freshly interlace

To keep the reader in so sweet a place;

So that he here and there full-hearted stops;

And oftentimes he feels the dewy drops

Come cool and suddenly against his face,

And by the wandering melody may trace

Which way the tender-leggéd linnet hops.

O what a charm hath white Simplicity!

What mighty power hath this gentle story!

I, that forever feel athirst for glory,

Could at this moment be content to lie

Meekly upon the grass, as those whose sobbings

Were heard of none beside the mournful robins.