Here’s
the B-side of Color Record No. 12:
One of
the poems that came up in the conversation in class today is this sonnet of
Keats:
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.
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