XX. KEATS'S LAST SONNET. RIGHT star, would I were steadfast as thou art! BR 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. THE END. |