"Already with thee! tender is the night, And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne, Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays; But here there is no light, Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet, Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild; White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine; Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.” - John Keats, “Ode to a Nightingale” || F Scott Fitzgerald once said, “For awhile after you quit Keats all other poetry seems to be only whistling or humming.” As ardent Keats fans, we agree. Illustration from Book 8 from our Illustrated Classic Collection, “Beauty is Truth.”