purling:

And you and I, shall we lie still,

John Keats, while Beauty summons us?

Somehow I feel your sensitive will

Is pulsing up some tremulous

Sap road of a maple tree, whose leaves

Grow music as they grow, since your

Wild voice is in them, a harp that grieves

For life that opens death’s dark door…

Countee Cullen, “To John Keats, Poet, at Springtime”