John Keats wrote Bright Star in 1819, and was fond of it until his death.
Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art -
Not in lone spelndor 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,
Pillowed upon my fair love's ripening breast
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake fo 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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