Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind,
Whose words are images of thoughts refin’d,
Is my soul’s pleasure; and it sure must be
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind,
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee.
John Keats, O Solitude!

When thou begin’st to touch my cheek so sweetly
And gently, dissipates the gloomy fog
Of melancholy mind; may I entreat thee?
To purify my soul, O’ Pedagogue
Would that thy spirit cleave to mine in power
Forgetting all despondency and sorrow
For with thee, endless days feel but an hour
Of captivating bliss, until the morrow
Quiescent darkness conquered thus the night
Shall break by twilight’s dawn aflame with light