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 priest-like 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 steadfast 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.