The Eve of St. Agnes The owl, for all his feathers, was a crow. A dry sad vestige of the soft moon, Strongly inclining towards late-night woe, He moved like water, tender and opportune, For I was lost amidst the nature’s feeling hearts, Who welcomed in as flowers feel the dew of morn.

Thus, there sat a maiden long ago, Amongst the woods at twilight circling back, Heard whispers carried lightly on the flow, Holding them dear like dreams from the track.

• John Keats