John Keats

Here are sweet peas, on tiptoe for a flight, With wings of gentle flush o’er delicate white, And taper fingers catching at all things, To bind them all about with tiny rings. Linger a while upon some bending planks That lean against a streamlet’s rushy banks, And watch intently Nature’s gentle doings; They will be found softer than ringdove’s cooings. How silent comes the water round that bend! Not the minutest whisper does it send To the o’erhanging sallows; blades of grass Slowly across the checkered shadows pass.