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WIFTLY walk over the western wave,
Spirit of Night!
Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Swift be thy flight!
Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,
Kiss her until she be wearied out,
When I arose and saw the dawn,
I sighed for thee;
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
I sighed for thee.
Thy brother Death came, and cried,
“Wouldst thou me?”
Murmured like a noontide bee,
“No, not thee!”
Death will come when thou art dead,
Soon, too soon-
Of neither would I ask the boon
Percy Bysshe Shelley
BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers,
From the seas and the streams;
In their noonday dreams.
The sweet buds every one,
As she dances about the sun.
And whiten the gréen plains under,
And laugh as I pass in thunder,
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.
Lightning my pilot sits,
It struggles and howls at fits;
This pilot is guiding me,
Lured by the love of the genii that move
In the depths of the purple sea;
Over the lakes and the plains,
The Spirit he loves remains;
Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes,
And his burning plumes outspread, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack,
When the morning star shines dead, As on the jag of a mountain crag,
Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit
In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath,
Its ardors of rest and of love,
From the depth of heaven above,
As still as a brooding dove.
That orbèd maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
Which only the angels hear,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas,
Are each paved with the moon and these.
I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
Over a torrent sea,
The mountains its columns be.
With hurricane, fire, and snow,
Is the million-colored bow;
While the moist earth was laughing below.
I am the daughter of earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;
I change, but I cannot die.
The pavilion of heaven is bare,
Build up the blue dome of air,
And out of the caverns of rain,
Percy Bysshe Shelley
ODE TO THE WEST WIND
WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Thou on whose stream, ʼmid the steep sky's commotion,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread