Bright Star
Bright
star,
would
I
were
stedfast
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
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.
