BRIGHT STAR
Bright star, would I were
stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung
aloft the night
And watching, with eternal
lids apart,
Like Nature's patient,
sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their
priestlike task
Of pure ablution round
earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new
soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains
and the moors—
No—yet still steadfast, still
unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's
ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft
swell and fall,
Awake for ever in a sweet
unrest,
Still, still to hear her
tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else
swoon to death.
— John Keats
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