BEATRICE beautiful beneath blood breath bright called calm child clouds cold dark dead death deep delight desire divine dream earth eternal evil eyes fair father fear feel fire flowers follow gentle give grave green grew hand happy hear heard heart heaven hope hour human Italy leaves light lips living look mighty mind moon morning mortal mountains move nature never night o'er ocean once pain pale pass passion past poem poetry poets rest round ruin seemed sense shadow shapes Shelley slaves sleep smile soon soul sound speak spirit spring stars strange stream sweet tears thee thine things thou thought truth turned voice wandering waters waves whilst wide wild wind wings youth
260 psl. - HAIL to thee, blithe spirit ! Bird thou never wert, That from heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
249 psl. - Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is; What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
259 psl. - That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, By the midnight breezes strewn ; And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, Which only the angels hear, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, The stars peep behind her and peer...
260 psl. - What thou art we know not : What is most like thee ? From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
260 psl. - We look before and after, And pine for what is not; Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught; Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
203 psl. - I MET a traveller from an antique land Who said : Two vast and trunkless legs of stone Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand, Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown, And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command, Tell that its sculptor well those passions read Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things, The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed ; And on the pedestal these words appear : ' My name is Ozymandias, king of kings : Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair...
259 psl. - I sift the snow on the mountains below, And their great pines groan aghast ; And all the night 'tis my pillow white, While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
299 psl. - ONE word is too often profaned For me to profane it, One feeling too falsely disdained For thee to disdain it; One hope is too like despair For prudence to smother, And pity from thee more dear Than that from another. I can give not what men call love, But wilt thou accept not The worship the heart lifts above And the Heavens reject not, The desire of the moth for the star, Of the night for the morrow, The devotion to something afar From the sphere of our sorrow?
177 psl. - Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep. A loftier Argo cleaves the main, Fraught with a later prize; Another Orpheus sings again, And loves, and weeps, and dies; A new Ulysses leaves once more Calypso for his native shore.