One simply cannot post entries for National Poetry Month without acknowledging, nay, swooning, weeping, lamenting and living the agony of the doomed romance of John Keats and Fanny Brawne. And so, dear readers, with my heart full and my eyes welling, I give you
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.
Oh, Mr. Keats. Alas that thou didst die one hundred fifty-six years before I was born. Oh, my heart.
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