I stood tip-toe upon a little hill, / The air was cooling and so very still, / That the sweet buds which with a modest pride, / Pull droopingly, in slanting curve aside, / Their scantly leaved and finely tapering stems, / Had not yet lost those starry diadems, / Caught from the early sobbing of the morn,’” he recited. Then he gave me a glance, only a little self-conscious. “Keats.”
