O ! How I love, on a fair summer's eve
When streamsof light pour down the golden west,
And on the balmy zephyrs tranquil rest
The silver clouds, far - far away to leave
All meaner thoughts, and take a sweet reprieve
From little cares; to find, with easy quest,
A fragant wild, with Nature's beauty dressed,
And there inti delight my soul deceive.
There warm my breast with patriotic lore,
Musing on Milton's fate - on Sidney's bier -
Till their stern forms before my mind arise:
Perhaps on the wing of Poesy upsoar,
Full often dropping a delicious tear,
When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes.
John Keats, été 1816
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