THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
i as 
WILD FLOWERS. 
BY JOHN KEATS. 
I stood tiptoe upon a little hill; 
The air was cooling, and so very still, 
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride 
Fell droopingly in slanting curve aside, 
Their scanty-leaved and finely tapering stems 
Had not yet lost their starry diadems, 
Caught from the early sobbings of the morn. 
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new 
shorn, 
And fresh from the clear brook; sweetly they 
slept 
On the blue fields of heaven, and then there crept 
A little noiseless noise among the leaves, 
Born of the very sigh that silence heaves ; 
For not the faintest motion could be seen 
Of all the shades that slanted o’er n« green. 
There was wide wandering for the greediest eye. 
To peer about upon variety ; 
Far round the horizon’s crystal air to skim, 
And trace the dwindled edgings of its brim ; 
To picture out the quaint and curious bending 
Of a fresh woodland alley never-ending : 
Or by the bowery clefts and leafy shelves, 
Guess where the janty streams refresh them 
selves. 
