BRIGHT STAR, WOULD I WERE STEDFAST AS THOU ART …

There’s another world in my terrarium.   A secret, magic place where anyone can go if they have a mind to.

For a while the vintage terrarium was a lush garden of  irises and crocuses towering over a baby rabbit,  safe in this secret garden.

Now two birds  whisper endearing words to each other.

Quietly, softly, he recites 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.

Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,

And so live ever … or else swoon to death.

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