(Snatches from Keats)

a host of lilies of the valley
oozing sweet drowsy numbness
it’s the fragrance of dryads
singing high up in the beechen green
of springtime in full throated ease

a host of lilies of the valley
and fresh shadows numberless
cooling burning foreheads
and heartaches insupportable
of many a first love lost

a host of lilies of the valley
white tiny bells in the breeze
token of innocent virginity
and still our senses deceive
beware: they are poisonous