Confession Cent-Dix

1 stood tip-toe upon, a little hill,
The air was cooling, and so very still,
That the sweet buds which with a modest pride
Bull droopingly, in slanting curve aside,
Their, scantly leaved, and finely tapering stems,
Had not yet lost those starry diadems
Caught from the early sobbing of the morn.

John Keats, I stood tip-toe upon a little hill

No comments:

Post a Comment

A few words...

Note: only a member of this blog may post a comment.