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The Poetry of Flowers. 
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 the 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 jaunty streams refresh themselves, 
I gazed awhile, and felt as light and free 
As though the fanning wings of Mercury 
Had played upon my heels: I was light-hearted, 
And many pleasures to my vision started ; 
So I straightway began to pluck a posy 
Of luxuries bright, milky, soft, and rosy. 
A bush of May-flowers with the bees about them ; 
Ah! sure no tasteful nook could be without them ; 
And let a lush laburnum oversweep them, 







