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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,
Like Nature's patient sleepless Eremite,
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors:
Awake forever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
* Another reading:
Half-passionless, and so swoon on to death.