The fountains mingle with the river,
And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
All things by a law divine
In another’s being mingle—
Why not I with thine?

See, the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower could be forgiven
If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea;—
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

Waves crashing timed perfectly with short taken breath;
a mind in haze caught in limbo, a screaming silent death.
Too far from shore, too far to see the trees;
time without meaning and anger fused disease.

Searching for direction in the water unforgiving.
Crying for help — thoughts swinging like arms do swimming;
counting time like sands on the long lost shore,
a mindless task like praying, wishing that the water would be no more.

The waves are getting higher as they overtake my view;
a strange new way to watch the world, a dark and troubled hue.
Losing strength, I resolve myself to a dim and unknown fate;
thinking on the periled deep and the trials that await

As the water fills my lungs, the time I steady count.
Unable to reach the shore, a struggle impossible to surmount.
I beg the sea for mercy, but my thoughts are like a rock.
I tally up the minutes as I’m just a drowning clock.

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.

J. 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.

- J. K.