The moving waters at their priest-like task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores.
John Keats (His Last Sonnet, 1820).
With sweet May dews my wings were wet,
And Phoebus fired my vocal rage;
Love caught me in his silken net,
And shut me in his golden cage.
He loves to sit and hear me sing.
Then, laughing, sports and plays with me;