I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet.
--
Stanza 5.John Keats
I do not ask that flowers should always spring
Beneath my feet
I know too well the poison and the sting
Of things too sweet.Adelaide Anne Procter
I hear in the chamber above me
The patter of little feet,
The sound of a door that is opened,
And voices soft and sweet.Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Here the wild will woke within her lighting up her flying dreams,
Round and round the planets whirling break in woods and flowers and streams,
And the winds are shaken from them as the leaves from off the rose,
And the feet of earth go dancing in the way that beauty goes,
And the souls of earth are kindled by the incense of her breath
As her light alternate lures them through the gates of birth and death.George William Russell
I kept looking at the flowers in a vase near me: lavender sweet peas, fragile winged and yet so still, so perfectly poised, apart, and complete. They are self-sufficient, a world in themselves, a whole — perfect. Is that then, perfection? Is what those sweet peas had what I have, occasionally in moments like that? But flowers always have it — poise, completion, fulfillment, perfection; I only occasionally, like that moment. For that moment I and the sweet peas had an understanding.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh
Keats, John
Keble, John
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