'Tis well you think me truly one of those, <br />Whose sense discerns the loveliness of things; <br />For surely as I feel the bird that sings <br />Behind the leaves, or dawn as it up grows, <br />Or the rich bee rejoicing as he goes, <br />Or the glad issue of emerging springs, <br />Or overhead the glide of a dove's wings, <br />Or turf, or trees, or, midst of all, repose. <br />And surely as I feel things lovelier still, <br />The human look, and the harmonious form <br />Containing woman, and the smile in ill, <br />And such a heart as Charles's, wise and warm,-- <br />As surely as all this, I see, ev'n now, <br />Young Keats, a flowering laurel on your brow.<br /><br />James Henry Leigh Hunt<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-john-keats-3/
