English Romantic Lyric Poet
Percy Bysshe Shelley
English Romantic Lyric Poet
When the lamp is shattered the light in the dust lies dead ? when the cloud is scattered, the rainbow's glory is shed.
Woe is me! The winged words on which my soul would pierce Into the heights of love's rare universe, Are chains of lead around its flight of fire- I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire.
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.
Mild is the slow necessity of death; the tranquil spirit fails beneath its grasp, without a groan, almost without a fear, resigned in peace to the necessity; calm as a voyager to some distant land, and full of wonder, full of hope as he.
Not the swart Pariah in some Indian grove, lone, lean, and hunted by his brother?s hate, hath drunk so deep the cup of bitter fate as that poor wretch who cannot, cannot love: he bears a load which nothing can remove, a killing, withering weight.
Of such affection and unbroken faith As temper life's worst bitterness.
Persevere even though Hell and destruction should yawn beneath your feet.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, are heaped for the beloved's bed; and so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, Love itself shall slumber on.
Swiftly walk o'er the western wave, spirit of night! Out of the misty eastern cave,-- where, all the long and lone daylight, thou wovest dreams of joy and fear which make thee terrible and dear,-- swift be thy flight! Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, star-inwrought! Blind with thine hair the eyes of day; kiss her until she be wearied out. Then wander o'er city and sea and land, touching all with thine opiate wand--come, long-sought! When I arose and saw the dawn, I sigh'd for thee; when light rode high, and the dew was gone, and noon lay heavy on flower and tree, and the weary day turn'd to his rest, lingering like an unloved guest, I sigh'd for thee. Thy brother death came, and cried, 'wouldst thou me?' thy sweet child sleep, the filmy-eyed, murmur'd like a noontide bee, 'shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me?'--and I replied, 'no, not thee!' death will come when thou art dead, soon, too soon--sleep will come when thou art fled. Of neither would I ask the boon I ask of thee, beloved night--swift be thine approaching flight, come soon, soon!
The distinction between poets and prose writers is a vulgar error.
The life of Camillus, the death of Regulus; the expectation of the senators, in their godlike state, of the victorious Gauls; the refusal of the republic to make peace with Hannibal, after the battle of Cannae, were not the consequences of a refined calculation of the probable personal advantage to result from such a rhythm and order in the shows of life, to those who were at once the poets and the actors of these immortal dramas. The imagination beholding the beauty of this order, created it out of itself according to its own idea; the consequence was empire, and the reward everlasting fame. These things are not the less poetry, quia carent vate sacro [because they lack a sacred bard]. They are the episodes of that cyclic poem written by Time upon the memories of men.
Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise! She knew not 'twas her own; as with no stain she faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain.
Mind from its object differs most in this: evil from good; misery from happiness; the baser from the nobler; the impure and frail, from what is clear and must endure. If you divide suffering and dross, you may diminish till it is consumed away; if you divide pleasure and love and thought, each part exceeds the whole; and we know not how much, while any yet remains unshared, of pleasure may be gained, of sorrow spared: this truth is that deep well, whence sages draw the unenvied light of hope; the eternal law by which those live, to whom this world of life is as a garden ravaged, and whose strife tills for the promise of a later birth the wilderness of this elysian earth. Love's very pain is sweet, but its reward is in the world divine which, if not here, it builds beyond the grave.
Nothing in the world is single, all things by a law divine in one another's being mingle ?Why not I with thine?
Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird.
Peter was dull; he was at first Dull;? Oh, so dull ? so very dull! Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed ? Still with his dullness was he cursed ? Dull ? beyond all conception ? dull.
Rough wind, that moanest loud Grief too sad for song; Wild wind, when sullen cloud Knells all the night long; Sad storm, whose tears are vain, Bare woods, whose branches strain, Deep caves and dreary main, - Wail, for the world's wrong!
Tacitus says, that the Jews held God to be something eternal and supreme, neither subject to change nor to decay; therefore, they permit no statues in their cities or their temples. The universal Being can only be described or defined by negatives which deny his subjection to the laws of all inferior existences. Where indefiniteness ends, idolatry and anthropomorphism begin.
The dust of creeds outworn.
The lone couch of his everlasting sleep.
Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains, and feeds her grief.
Most musical of mourners, weep again!
Now all the tree-tops lay asleep, like green waves on the sea, as still as in the silent deep the ocean-woods may be.
Oh that simplicity and innocence its own unvalued work so seldom knows!
Poet of nature, thou hast wept to know that things depart which never may return: childhood and youth, friendship and love's first glow, have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn. These common woes I feel. One loss is mine which thou too feel'st, yet I alone deplore. Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine on some frail bark in winter's midnight roar: thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood above the blind and battling multitude: in honored poverty thy voice did weave songs consecrate to truth and liberty,-- deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve, thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to be.