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by John Keats
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 stedfast, still
unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To
feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet
unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live
ever--or else swoon to death.
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