"O Maker of sweet poets, dear delight
Of this fair world, and all its gentle livers;
Sprangler of clouds, halo of crystal rivers,
Mingler with leaves, and dew and tumbling streams,
Closer of lovely eyes to lovely dreams,
Lover of loneliness, and wandering,
Of upcast eye, and tender pondering!
Thee must I praise above all glories
That smile us on to tell delightful stories.
For what has made the sage or poet write
But the fair paradise of Nature’s light? "
- Taken from I Stood Tiptoe Upon A Little Hill by John Keats