“For cruel ’tis,” said she, "To steal my Basil-pot away from me.” - John Keats

And for her eyes: what could such eyes do there But weep, and weep, that they were born so fair?

Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!

Ah! dearest love, sweet home of all my fears,
and hopes, and joys, and panting miseries,
Tonight if I may guess, thy beauty wears a smile of such delight,
As brilliant and as bright
As when with ravished, aching, nassal eyes,
Lost in a soft amaze
I gaze, I gaze