The two divinest things the world has got — A lovely woman and a rural spot. - John Keats

Stop and consider! life is but a day;
A fragile dewdrop on its perilous way
From a tree's summit; a poor Indian's sleep
While his boat hastens to the monstrous steep
Of Montmorenci. Why so sad a moan?
Life is the rose's hope while yet unblown;
The reading of an ever-changing tale;
The light uplifting of a maiden's veil;
A pigeon tumbling in clear summer air;
A laughing schoolboy, without grief or care,
Riding the springy branches of an elm.

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

Already with thee! tender is the night. . .
But here there is no light. . .