Another *super late* favorite poem to share with you this month by a well-reputed poet in the literary world. For last month’s poem, check it out here.
This month’s poem is no other than that of John Keats’s, arguably one of the greatest Romantic poets to have lived. I fell in love with him while in college, and have dedicated much of my time to projects, classes, and of course, his incredibly amazing poetry. He, along with his contemporary William Wordsworth, are my top favorite poets to read from. ❤
Seriously, my love for John Keats is immense: I have seen Bright Star (a biographical film on his life) at least five times already, and still, it continues to capture me with its gorgeous cinematography and wonderful chemistry between the actors who play Keats and Fanny Brawne, his love. I have also purchased an anthology of Keats’s work, of which I had brought to France with me. From time to time, I would pick it up and read from it whenever I needed some inspiration for good poetry.
In any case, I present you one of his famous poems, as well as one of my favorites from him. Just like the title of the biographical film, this sonnet of a mere fourteen lines is concise, but packed with such fantastical depth of the cosmos in relation to love. I’m a sucker for these kinds of things… 😛 Plus, his birthday (October 31st, aka Halloween) is just around the corner, so why not celebrate it with a poem? 🙂
Without further ado, enjoy!
Bright Star by John 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.
— The Finicky Cynic
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