Nature is Too Green and Badly Lit

But that didn't stop our old friend John Keats from looking for a little "full-throated" ease there.

Here's a sexy bit from "Ode to Psyche." It sounds like maybe Keats should find the Girl from the Pound poem. They both seem to be suffering from some kind of dendrogenic disorder:

Yes, I will be thy priest, and build a fane	50
In some untrodden region of my mind,
Where branchèd thoughts, new grown with pleasant pain,
Instead of pines shall murmur in the wind:
Far, far around shall those dark-cluster'd trees
Fledge the wild-ridgèd mountains steep by steep;	55
And there by zephyrs, streams, and birds, and bees,
The moss-lain Dryads shall be lull'd to sleep;
And in the midst of this wide quietness
A rosy sanctuary will I dress
With the wreath'd trellis of a working brain,	60
With buds, and bells, and stars without a name,
With all the gardener Fancy e'er could feign,
Who breeding flowers, will never breed the same;
And there shall be for thee all soft delight
That shadowy thought can win,	65
A bright torch, and a casement ope at night,
To let the warm Love in!