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Anarchs Apennine art thou Baiae beams Beatr Beatrice beautiful beneath blood breath bright calm cave cavern Cenci chidden child Chorus clouds cold Cyclops Daemon dark dead dear death deep delight divine dream earth eyes faint Faust fear flame flowers folded palm gentle Giac golden air green grew grey grief hair hear heard heart heaven hope kiss Lady leaves light limbs lips liquid song living look Lucr Maddalo mighty moon mortal mountains never night o'er ocean Onchestus pale PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY pinnace rocks round sate scorn shadow silent sleep smile soft soul sound speak spirit stars strange stream sweet sweet child swift tears tempest thee thine things thou art thought thro truth twas Ulys veil voice wake wandering waves weep Whilst wild wind wings woods words
Page 130 - Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure. Others I see whom these surround — Smiling they live, and call life pleasure ; — To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.
Page 47 - While yet a boy I sought for ghosts, and sped Through many a listening chamber, cave, and ruin, And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing Hopes of high talk with the departed dead. I called on poisonous names with which our youth is fed ; I was not heard : I saw them not. When musing deeply on the lot Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing All vital things that wake to bring News of birds and blossoming, Sudden thy shadow fell on me — I shrieked, and clasped my hands in...
Page 129 - O, lift me from the grass! I die, I faint, I fail! Let thy love in kisses rain On my lips and eyelids pale. My cheek is cold and white, alas ! My heart beats loud and fast: Oh! press it close to thine again, Where it will break at last ! Very few, perhaps, are familiar with these lines — yet no less a poet than Shelley is their author.
Page 70 - Our breath shall intermix, our bosoms bound, And our veins beat together; and our lips, With o'ther eloquence than words, eclipse The soul that burns between them...
Page 163 - Music, when soft voices die, Vibrates in the memory — Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken. 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.
Page 133 - I am the eye with which the Universe Beholds itself and knows itself divine; All harmony of instrument or verse, All prophecy, all medicine are mine, All light of art or nature; — to my song, Victory and praise in their own right belong.
Page 220 - But thou art fled Like some frail exhalation, which the dawn Robes in its golden beams, — ah ! thou hast fled ! The brave, the gentle, and the beautiful, The child of grace and genius. Heartless things Are done and said i...
Page 61 - You are now In London, that great sea, whose ebb and flow At once is deaf and loud, and on the shore Vomits its wrecks, and still howls on for more.
Page 123 - I sighed for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou me? Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed, Murmured like a noontide bee, Shall I nestle near thy side? Wouldst thou me? — And I replied, No, not thee!