Джон Китс

'Tis morn, and the flowers with dew are yet drooping,

I see you are treading the verge of the sea:

And now! ah, I see it--you just now are stooping

To pick up the keep-sake intended for me.

If a cherub, on pinions of silver descending,

Had brought me a gem from the fret-work of heaven;

And smiles, with his star-cheering voice sweetly blending,

The blessings of Tighe had melodiously given;

It had not created a warmer emotion

Than the present, fair nymphs, I was blest with from you

Than the shell, from the bright golden sands of the ocean

Which the emerald waves at your feet gladly threw.