And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon. — John Keats

"The sweet converse of an innocent mind."

"So many, and so many, and such glee."

"That large utterance of the early gods!"

"“For cruel ’tis,” said she, “To steal my Basil-pot away from me.”"

"St. Agnes Eve — Ah, bitter chill it was! The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold; The hare limpd trembling through the frozen grass, And silent was the flock in woolly fold."

"Sometimes goldfinches one by one will drop From low hung branches; little space they stop; But sip, and twitter, and their feathers sleek; Then off at once, as in a wanton freak: Or perhaps, to show their black, and golden wings Pausing upon their yellow flutterings."