Ecrit dans les champs

The one who has been long in city pent,
          ’Tis very sweet to look into the fair
          And open face of heaven — to breathe a prayer
Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with heart’s content, 
          Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair
          Of wavy grass, and reads a debonnair
And gentle tale of love and languishment ?
Returning home at evening, with an ear
          Catching the notes of Philomel — an eye
Watching the sailing cloudlet’s bright career,
          He mourns that day has glided by :
E’en like the passage of an angel’s tear
          That falls through the clear ether silently.






(John Keats.)