


THE POETRY OF FLOWERS. 
WILD FLOWERS. 
BY JOHN KEATS. 
I styop tiptoe upon a little hill; 
The air was cooling, and ‘so very still, 
‘That the sweet bude which with a moaest 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 seb rigs of the morn. 
The clouds were pure and white as flocks new 



shorn, 
And fresh fom 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 wos sigh that silence heaves ; 
For : 2 the faintest motion could br een 
Of all the shades <hat slanted o’er ‘+ green. 
Phere was wide wandering for, the greediest eye, 
eer 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 b ending 
Of a fi = woodland — never-ending : 
Or by ie bowery clefts and leafy shelves, 
Guess where the snes streams yefresh thera. 
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i 
20 
ev 
ves. 



