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Bright star, would I were stead­fast 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 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


Bright star, would I were…

bright star steadfast