Brimfull of the friendliness

Keen, fitful gusts are whisp’ring here and there
   Among the bushes half leafless, and dry ;
   The stars look very cold about the sky,
And I have many miles on foot to fare.
Yet feel I little of the cold bleak air,
   Or of the dead leaves rustling drearily,
   Or of those silver lamps that burn on high,
Or of the distance from home’s pleasant lair :
For I am brimfull of the friendliness
   That in a little cottage I have found ;
Of fair-hair’d Milton’s eloquent distress,
   And all his love for gentle Lycid drown’d ;
Of lovely Laura in her light green dress,
   And faithful Petrarch gloriously crown’d.

John Keats, 1817

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