John Keats

She sighed for Agnes’ dreams, the sweetest of the year.

As though a tongueless nightingale should swell

Her throat in vain, and die, heart-stifled, in her dell.

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,

Flushing his brow, and in his pained heart

Made purple riot.

And they are gone: ay, ages long ago

These lovers fled away into the storm.

Asleep in lap of legends old.