Last Sonnet

    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.