Percy Shelley

His fine wit Makes such a wound, the knife is lost in it.

How wonderful is Death! Death and his brother Sleep.

I could lie down like a tired child, And weep away the life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear.

I love tranquil solitude And such society As is quiet, wise, and good.

I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder.

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

A pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift.

A sensitive plant in a garden grew, And the young winds fed it with silver dew, And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, And closed them beneath the kisses of night.

All love is sweet, Given or returned. Common as light is love, And its familiar voice wearies not ever. . . . . . . They who inspire it most are fortunate, As I am now; but those who feel it most Are happier still.

And his own thoughts, along that rugged way Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.