"Nor much it grieves
To die, when summer dies on the cold sward.
Why, I have been a butterfly, a lord
Of flowers, garlands, love-knots, silly posies,
Groves, meadows, melodies, and arbor roses;
My kingdom's at its death, and just it is
That I should die with it."
In the summer of 1816, under the influence of a happy day at Hampstead, he wrote that lovely poem, "I stood tiptoe upon a little hill." After a description of the general scene, a special corner of beauty is thus told:—
"A bush of May flowers with the bees about them—
Ah, sure no bashful nook could be without them—
And let a lush Laburnum oversweep them,
And let long grass grow round the roots to keep them
Moist, cool, and green; and shade the Violets
That they may bind the moss in leafy nets.
A Filbert hedge with Wild-brier over trim'd,
And clumps of Woodbine taking the soft wind,
Upon their summer thrones...."
Then come these wonderful lines, which belittle all other descriptions of Sweet Peas:—
"Here are Sweet Peas, on tiptoe for a flight,
With wings of gentle flush o'er delicate white,
And taper fingers catching at all things
To bind them all about with tiny wings."
Keats states in his letters that his love of flowers was wholly for those of the "common garden sort," not for flowers of the greenhouse or difficult cultivation, nor do I find in his lines any evidence of extended familiarity with English wild flowers. He certainly does not know the flowers of woods and fields as does Matthew Arnold.
The Parson's Walk.