Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—

Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night

And watching, with eternal leads 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 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 fall and swell,

Awake for ever in a sweet unrest.

Still, still to hear her tender taken breath,

And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

By John Keats