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KEATS'S LAST SONNET.
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: 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,
* Another reading:
Half-passionless, and so swoon on to death.