Percy Shelley

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing A tone Of some world far from ours, Where music and moonlight and feeling Are one.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden, Whom mortals call the moon.

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.

The moon of Mahomet Arose, and it shall set; While, blazoned as on heaven's immortal noon, The cross leads generations on.

The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like heaven is bent, An early but enduring monument, Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow.

There is a harmony In autumn, and a lustre in its sky, Which through the summer is not heard or seen, As if it could not be, as if it had not been!

Those who inflict must suffer, for they see The work of their own hearts, and this must be Our chastisement or recompense.

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers So sweet, the sense faints picturing them.

A lovely lady, garmented in light From her own beauty.

A pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift.