PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, Born 1792, died 1822. THE QUESTION. I DREAM'D that, as I wandered by the way, Mix'd with the sound of waters murmuring Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling Its green arms round the bosom of the stream, There grew pied wind-flowers and violets, Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth, The constellated flower that never sets; Faint ox-lips; tender blue-bells, at whose birth The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears, When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears. And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine, Green cow-bind, and the moonlight-colour'd May, And cherry blossoms, and white cups, whose wine Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day; And wild roses, and ivy serpentine, With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray; And flowers azure, black, and streak'd with gold, Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold. And nearer to the river's trembling edge There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prankt with white, And starry river-buds among the sedge; And floating water-lilies, broad and bright, With moonlight beams of their own watery light; Methought that of these visionary flowers I made a nosegay, bound in such a way That the same hues which, in their natural bowers, LINES TO AN INDIAN AIR. I ARISE from dreams of thee I arise from dreams of thee, Has led me who knows how? The wandering airs they faint Like sweet thoughts in a dream; It dies upon her heart, Beloved as thou art! O lift me from the grass! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas ! My heart beats loud and fast, ON A FADED VIOLET. THE odour from the flower is gone, Which, like thy kisses, breathed on me ; The colour from the flower is flown, Which glow'd of thee, and only thee! A shrivell'd, lifeless, vacant form, I weep-my tears revive it not! I sigh-it breathes no more on me; Its mute and uncomplaining lot Is such as mine should be. LOVE'S PHILOSOPHY. * SEE the mountains kiss high heaven, ΤΟ MUSIC, when soft voices die, Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. Rose-leaves, when the rose is dead, And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, FRAGMENT. THOU art the wine whose drunkenness is all Its deserts and its mountains, till they wear The strong have broken-yet, where shall any seek |