A fragile dew-drop on its perilous way
From a tree's summit; a poor indian's sleep
While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep
Of Montmerci. Why so sad a moan?
Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;
The reading of an ever-changing tale;
The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;
A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;
A laughing school-boy, without grief or care;
Riding the springy branches of an elm.
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| John Keats |
