O woodland Queen

What smoothest air thy smoother forehead woos?

Where dost thou listen to the wide halloos

Of thy disparted nymphs? Through what dark tree

Glimmers thy crescent? Wheresoe’er it be,

‘Tis in the breath of heaven: thou dost taste

Freedom as none can taste it, nor does waste

Thy loveliness in dismal elements;

But, finding in our green earth sweet contents,

There livest blissfully.

— John Keats