B XX. KEATS'S LAST SONNET. RIGHT star, would I were steadfast as thou Not in lone splendor hung aloft the night, Of snow upon the mountains and the moors: Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast, To feel forever its soft fall and swell, 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. |