XX.

KEATS'S LAST SONNET.

BRI

RIGHT star, would I were steadfast as thou

art! Not in lone splendor 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 forever its soft fall and swell,

Awake forever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever- or else swoon to death. *