Linger awhile upon some bending planks
That lean against a streamlet's rushy banks,
And watch intently Nature's gentle doings;
They will be found softer than a ring dove's cooing.
 
 

Were I in such a place, I sure should pray
That naught less sweet, might call my thoughts away,
Than the soft rustle of a maiden's gown
Fanning away the dandelion's down;
 

Than the light music of her nimble toes
Patting against the sorrel as she goes.
John Keats.
 
 
 

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Poem by J. Keats.