Here is an excerpt from Ode to the Nightingale by John Keats which was written in the month of May 1819. In it, as the poet imagines his vision dimming with the passing of daylight, his sense of smell becomes all the more perceptive of the invisible presence of fruit and flora. The feeble light which comes to him is gloomy-green and smells of soft breezy mosses.
"tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster'd around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways."...
"I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But, in embalmed darkness, guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass, the thicket, and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn, and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves;
And mid-May's eldest child,
The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves."
Can you tell I am dying to go see Bright Star, the latest work by Jane Campion?