TO HOPE

Now morning from her orient chamber came,
and her first footsteps touch'd a verdant hill:
Crowning its lawny crest with amber flame,
Silv'ring the untainted gushes of its rill;
Which, pure from mossy beds, did down distil,
And after parting beds of simple flowers,
By many strams a little lake did fill,
Which round its marge reflected woven howers,
And, in its middle space, a sky that never lowers.
John Keats