To this high passion and bright joy, The threaded hills like spun pearl/thread, The streams of silver glisten through, And the night trails fragrant across thy cheek,

O creature of my dreams, behold The solemnity of a flower’s desire, And the emerald’s sultry flesh does yield, A beauty unseen—the art of loam.

So pure, dear heart, so pure and bright, With a heart in thy bloom—the love they give, To flower the day, and brighten the night, And feel beyond a spirit adrift. — To this high passion

• John Keats