John Keats (1795–1821)

WHERE be ye going, you Devon Maid?

And what have ye there in the basket?

Ye tight little fairy just fresh from the dairy,

Will ye give me some cream if I ask it?

I love your meads, and I love your flowers,

And I love your junkets mainly,

But ’hind the door I love kissing more,

O look not so disdainly.

I love your hills, and I love your dales,

And I love your flocks a-bleating—

But O, on the heather to lie together,

With both our hearts a-beating!

I’ll put your Basket all safe in a nook,

Your shawl I hang up on the willow,

And we will sigh in the daisy’s eye

And kiss on a grass green pillow.