And dream the rest-and burn and be After the slumber of the year The woodland violets reappear, And sky and sea, but two, which move, And form all others, life and love. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY I LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR ARISE from dreams of Thee In the first sweet sleep of night, Has led me-who knows how? To thy chamber-window, Sweet! I My cheek is cold and white, alas! Where it will break at last. ΤΟ PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY FEAR thy kisses, gentle maiden, My spirit is too deeply laden Ever to burthen thine. I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion, PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY THE fountains mingle with the river And the rivers with the ocean, The winds of heaven mix for ever With a sweet emotion; See the mountains kiss high heaven PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY LINES HEN the lamp is shatter'd WHE The light in the dust lies dead When the cloud is scatter'd, The rainbow's glory is shed. When the lute is broken, Sweet tones are remember'd not; When the lips have spoken, As music and splendour Survive not the lamp and the lute, The heart's echoes render No song when the spirit is muteNo song but sad dirges, Like the wind through a ruin'd cell, Or the mournful surges That ring the dead seaman's knell. When hearts have once mingled, Love first leaves the well-built nest; The weak one is singled To endure what it once possesst. O Love! who bewailest The frailty of all things here, Why choose you the frailest For your cradle, your home, and your bier? Its passions will rock thee As the storms rock the ravens on high; Bright reason will mock thee Like the sun from a wintry sky. From thy nest every rafter Will rot, and thine eagle home Leave the naked to laughter When leaves fall and cold winds come. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY TO CONSTANTIA SINGING HUS to be lost and thus to sink and die, THU Perchance were death indeed !—Constantia, turn! In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie, Even though the sounds which were thy voice, which burn Between thy lips, are laid to sleep; Within thy breath, and on thy hair, like odour it is yet, And from thy touch like fire doth leap. Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet, A breathless awe, like the swift change Unseen, but felt in youthful slumbers, Wild, sweet, but uncommunicably strange, Thou breathest now in fast ascending numbers. The cope of heaven seems rent and cloven By the enchantment of thy strain, And on my shoulders wings are woven, To follow its sublime career, Beyond the mighty moons that wane Upon the verge of nature's utmost sphere, Till the world's shadowy walls are past and disappear. Her voice is hovering o'er my soul—it lingers My heart is quivering like a flame; As morning dew, that in the sunbeam dies, I am dissolved in these consuming ecstasies. I have no life, Constantia, now, but thee, Now is thy voice a tempest swift and strong, Now 'tis the breath of summer night, Round western isles, with incense blossoms bright, Lingering, suspends my soul in its voluptuous flight. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY ONE ΤΟ NE word is too often profaned One feeling too falsely disdain'd One hope is too like despair I can give not what men call love ; PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY |