Selected Poetry and Prose. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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must accept in place of serenade—

      Or yellow-haired Pollonia murmuring

      To Henry, some unutterable thing.

      I see a chaos of green leaves and fruit

      Built round dark caverns, even to the root

      Of the living stems that feed them—in whose bowers

      There sleep in their dark dew the folded flowers;

      Beyond, the surface of the unsickled corn

      Trembles not in the slumbering air, and borne

      In circles quaint, and ever-changing dance,

      Like winged stars the fire-flies flash and glance,

      Pale in the open moonshine, but each one

      Under the dark trees seems a little sun,

      A meteor tamed; a fixed star gone astray

      From the silver regions of the milky way;—

      Afar the Contadino’s song is heard,

      Rude, but made sweet by distance—and a bird

      Which cannot be the Nightingale, and yet

      I know none else that sings so sweet as it

      At this late hour;—and then all is still—

      Now—Italy or London, which you will!

      Next winter you must pass with me; I’ll have

      My house by that time turned into a grave

      Of dead despondence and low-thoughted care,

      And all the dreams which our tormentors are;

      Oh! that Hunt, Hogg, Peacock, and Smith were there,

      With everything belonging to them fair!—

      We will have books, Spanish, Italian, Greek;

      And ask one week to make another week

      As like his father, as I’m unlike mine,

      Which is not his fault, as you may divine.

      Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine,

      Yet let’s be merry: we’ll have tea and toast;

      Custards for supper, and an endless host

      Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies,

      And other such lady-like luxuries,—

      Feasting on which we will philosophize!

      And we’ll have fires out of the Grand Duke’s wood,

      To thaw the six weeks’ winter in our blood.

      And then we’ll talk;—what shall we talk about?

      Oh! there are themes enough for many a bout

      Of thought-entangled descant;—as to nerves—

      With cones and parallelograms and curves

      I’ve sworn to strangle them if once they dare

      To bother me—when you are with me there.

      And they shall never more sip laudanum,

      From Helicon or Himeros;—well, come,

      And in despite of God and of the devil,

      We’ll make our friendly philosophic revel

      Outlast the leafless time; till buds and flowers

      Warn the obscure inevitable hours,

      Sweet meeting by sad parting to renew;—

      ‘To-morrow to fresh woods and pastures new.

      LINES: ‘FAR, FAR AWAY, O YE’

      I.

      Far, far away, O ye

      Halcyons of Memory,

      Seek some far calmer nest

      Than this abandoned breast!

      No news of your false spring

      To my heart’s winter bring,

      Once having gone, in vain

      Ye come again.

      II.

      Vultures, who build your bowers

      High in the Future’s towers,

      Withered hopes on hopes are spread!

      Dying joys, choked by the dead,

      Will serve your beaks for prey

      Many a day.

      LINES TO A CRITIC

      I.

      Honey from silkworms who can gather,

      Or silk from the yellow bee?

      The grass may grow in winter weather

      As soon as hate in me.

      II.

      Hate men who cant, and men who pray,

      And men who rail like thee;

      An equal passion to repay

      They are not coy like me.

      III.

      Or seek some slave of power and gold

      To be thy dear heart’s mate;

      Thy love will move that bigot cold

      Sooner than me, thy hate.

      IV.

      A passion like the one I prove

      Cannot divided be;

      I hate thy want of truth and love—

      How

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