And taper fingers catching at all things,
To bind them all about with tiny rings.
What next? a turf of evening primroses,
O’er which the mind may hover till it dozes;
O’er which it well might take a pleasant sleep,
But that ’tis ever startled by the leap
Of buds into ripe flowers.
John Keats.
TO THE SWEET-BRIER.
Our sweet autumnal western-scented wind