345
CHRISTABEL'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;Tu-whit!——Tu-whoo!And hark, again! the crowing cock,How drowsily it crew.Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;From her kennel beneath the rockShe maketh answer to the clock,Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;Ever and aye, by shine and shower,Sixteen short howls, not over loud;Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.Is the night chilly and dark?The night is chilly, but not dark.The thin gray cloud is spread on high,It covers but not hides the sky.The moon is behind, and at the full;And yet she looks both small and dull.The night is chill, the cloud is gray:'Tis a month before the month of May,And the Spring comes slowly up this way.The lovely lady, Christabel,Whom her father loves so well,What makes her in the wood so late,A furlong from the castle gate?She had dreams all yesternightOf her own betrothèd knight;And she in the midnight wood will prayFor the weal of her lover that's far away.She stole along, she nothing spoke,The sighs she heaved were soft and low,And naught was green upon the oakBut moss and rarest mistletoe:She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,And in silence prayeth she.The lady sprang up suddenly,The lovely lady, Christabel!It moaned as near, as near can be,But what it is she cannot tell.—On the other side it seems to be,Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.The night is chill; the forest bare;Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?There is not wind enough in the airTo move away the ringlet curlFrom the lovely lady's cheek—There is not wind enough to twirlThe one red leaf, the last of its clan,That dances as often as dance it can,Hanging so light, and hanging so high,On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.Hush, beating heart of Christabel!Jesu, Maria, shield her well!She folded her arms beneath her cloak,And stole to the other side of the oak.What sees she there?There she sees a damsel bright,Drest in a silken robe of white,That shadowy in the moonlight shone:The neck that made that white robe wan—Her stately neck, and arms were bare;Her blue-veined feet unsandaled were,And wildly glittered here and thereThe gems entangled in her hair....Samuel Taylor Coleridge
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;Tu-whit!——Tu-whoo!And hark, again! the crowing cock,How drowsily it crew.Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;From her kennel beneath the rockShe maketh answer to the clock,Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;Ever and aye, by shine and shower,Sixteen short howls, not over loud;Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.Is the night chilly and dark?The night is chilly, but not dark.The thin gray cloud is spread on high,It covers but not hides the sky.The moon is behind, and at the full;And yet she looks both small and dull.The night is chill, the cloud is gray:'Tis a month before the month of May,And the Spring comes slowly up this way.The lovely lady, Christabel,Whom her father loves so well,What makes her in the wood so late,A furlong from the castle gate?She had dreams all yesternightOf her own betrothèd knight;And she in the midnight wood will prayFor the weal of her lover that's far away.She stole along, she nothing spoke,The sighs she heaved were soft and low,And naught was green upon the oakBut moss and rarest mistletoe:She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,And in silence prayeth she.The lady sprang up suddenly,The lovely lady, Christabel!It moaned as near, as near can be,But what it is she cannot tell.—On the other side it seems to be,Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.The night is chill; the forest bare;Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?There is not wind enough in the airTo move away the ringlet curlFrom the lovely lady's cheek—There is not wind enough to twirlThe one red leaf, the last of its clan,That dances as often as dance it can,Hanging so light, and hanging so high,On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.Hush, beating heart of Christabel!Jesu, Maria, shield her well!She folded her arms beneath her cloak,And stole to the other side of the oak.What sees she there?There she sees a damsel bright,Drest in a silken robe of white,That shadowy in the moonlight shone:The neck that made that white robe wan—Her stately neck, and arms were bare;Her blue-veined feet unsandaled were,And wildly glittered here and thereThe gems entangled in her hair....Samuel Taylor Coleridge
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;Tu-whit!——Tu-whoo!And hark, again! the crowing cock,How drowsily it crew.
'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;
Tu-whit!——Tu-whoo!
And hark, again! the crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew.
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;From her kennel beneath the rockShe maketh answer to the clock,Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;Ever and aye, by shine and shower,Sixteen short howls, not over loud;Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;
From her kennel beneath the rock
She maketh answer to the clock,
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;
Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud;
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.
Is the night chilly and dark?The night is chilly, but not dark.The thin gray cloud is spread on high,It covers but not hides the sky.The moon is behind, and at the full;And yet she looks both small and dull.The night is chill, the cloud is gray:'Tis a month before the month of May,And the Spring comes slowly up this way.
Is the night chilly and dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark.
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray:
'Tis a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.
The lovely lady, Christabel,Whom her father loves so well,What makes her in the wood so late,A furlong from the castle gate?She had dreams all yesternightOf her own betrothèd knight;And she in the midnight wood will prayFor the weal of her lover that's far away.
The lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
What makes her in the wood so late,
A furlong from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothèd knight;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that's far away.
She stole along, she nothing spoke,The sighs she heaved were soft and low,And naught was green upon the oakBut moss and rarest mistletoe:She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,And in silence prayeth she.
She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak
But moss and rarest mistletoe:
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
And in silence prayeth she.
The lady sprang up suddenly,The lovely lady, Christabel!It moaned as near, as near can be,But what it is she cannot tell.—On the other side it seems to be,Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.
The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady, Christabel!
It moaned as near, as near can be,
But what it is she cannot tell.—
On the other side it seems to be,
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.
The night is chill; the forest bare;Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?There is not wind enough in the airTo move away the ringlet curlFrom the lovely lady's cheek—There is not wind enough to twirlThe one red leaf, the last of its clan,That dances as often as dance it can,Hanging so light, and hanging so high,On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek—
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can,
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
Hush, beating heart of Christabel!Jesu, Maria, shield her well!She folded her arms beneath her cloak,And stole to the other side of the oak.What sees she there?
Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there?
There she sees a damsel bright,Drest in a silken robe of white,That shadowy in the moonlight shone:The neck that made that white robe wan—Her stately neck, and arms were bare;Her blue-veined feet unsandaled were,And wildly glittered here and thereThe gems entangled in her hair....Samuel Taylor Coleridge
There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone:
The neck that made that white robe wan—
Her stately neck, and arms were bare;
Her blue-veined feet unsandaled were,
And wildly glittered here and there
The gems entangled in her hair....
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
346
THE FRUIT PLUCKEREncinctured with a twine of leaves,That leafy twine his only dress,A lovely Boy was plucking fruits,By moonlight, in a wilderness.The moon was bright, the air was free,And fruits and flowers together grewOn many a shrub and many a tree:And all put on a gentle hue,Hanging in the shadowy airLike a picture rich and rare.It was a climate where, they say,The night is more beloved than day.But who that beauteous Boy beguiled,That beauteous Boy to linger here?Alone, by night, a little child,In place so silent and so wild—Has he no friend, no loving mother near?Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Encinctured with a twine of leaves,That leafy twine his only dress,A lovely Boy was plucking fruits,By moonlight, in a wilderness.The moon was bright, the air was free,And fruits and flowers together grewOn many a shrub and many a tree:And all put on a gentle hue,Hanging in the shadowy airLike a picture rich and rare.It was a climate where, they say,The night is more beloved than day.But who that beauteous Boy beguiled,That beauteous Boy to linger here?Alone, by night, a little child,In place so silent and so wild—Has he no friend, no loving mother near?Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Encinctured with a twine of leaves,That leafy twine his only dress,A lovely Boy was plucking fruits,By moonlight, in a wilderness.The moon was bright, the air was free,And fruits and flowers together grewOn many a shrub and many a tree:And all put on a gentle hue,Hanging in the shadowy airLike a picture rich and rare.It was a climate where, they say,The night is more beloved than day.But who that beauteous Boy beguiled,That beauteous Boy to linger here?Alone, by night, a little child,In place so silent and so wild—Has he no friend, no loving mother near?Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Encinctured with a twine of leaves,
That leafy twine his only dress,
A lovely Boy was plucking fruits,
By moonlight, in a wilderness.
The moon was bright, the air was free,
And fruits and flowers together grew
On many a shrub and many a tree:
And all put on a gentle hue,
Hanging in the shadowy air
Like a picture rich and rare.
It was a climate where, they say,
The night is more beloved than day.
But who that beauteous Boy beguiled,
That beauteous Boy to linger here?
Alone, by night, a little child,
In place so silent and so wild—
Has he no friend, no loving mother near?
Samuel Taylor Coleridge
347
THE HAUNTED PALACEIn the greenest of our valleysBy good angels tenanted,Once a fair and stately palace—Radiant palace—reared its head.In the monarch Thought's dominionIt stood there!Never seraph spread a pinionOver fabric half so fair.Banners yellow, glorious, golden,On its roof did float and flow,(This—all this—was in the oldenTime long ago),And every gentle air that dalliedIn that sweet day,Along the ramparts plumed and pallidA wingèd odour went away.Wanderers, in that happy valley,Through two luminous windows sawSpirits moving musically,To a lute's well-tunèd law,Round about a throne, where sitting(Porphyrogene),In state his glory well befitting,The ruler of the realm was seen.And all with pearl and ruby glowingWas the fair palace door,Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,And sparkling evermore,A troop of Echoes, whose sweet dutyWas but to sing,In voices of surpassing beauty,The wit and wisdom of their king.But evil things, in robes of sorrow,Assailed the monarch's high estate.(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrowShall dawn upon him desolate!)And round about his home, the glory,That blushed and bloomed,Is but a dim-remembered storyOf the old time entombed.And travellers, now, within that valley,Through the red-litten windows seeVast forms, that move fantasticallyTo a discordant melody;While, like a ghastly rapid river,Through the pale doorA hideous throng rush out for ever,And laugh—but smile no more.Edgar Allan Poe
In the greenest of our valleysBy good angels tenanted,Once a fair and stately palace—Radiant palace—reared its head.In the monarch Thought's dominionIt stood there!Never seraph spread a pinionOver fabric half so fair.Banners yellow, glorious, golden,On its roof did float and flow,(This—all this—was in the oldenTime long ago),And every gentle air that dalliedIn that sweet day,Along the ramparts plumed and pallidA wingèd odour went away.Wanderers, in that happy valley,Through two luminous windows sawSpirits moving musically,To a lute's well-tunèd law,Round about a throne, where sitting(Porphyrogene),In state his glory well befitting,The ruler of the realm was seen.And all with pearl and ruby glowingWas the fair palace door,Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,And sparkling evermore,A troop of Echoes, whose sweet dutyWas but to sing,In voices of surpassing beauty,The wit and wisdom of their king.But evil things, in robes of sorrow,Assailed the monarch's high estate.(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrowShall dawn upon him desolate!)And round about his home, the glory,That blushed and bloomed,Is but a dim-remembered storyOf the old time entombed.And travellers, now, within that valley,Through the red-litten windows seeVast forms, that move fantasticallyTo a discordant melody;While, like a ghastly rapid river,Through the pale doorA hideous throng rush out for ever,And laugh—but smile no more.Edgar Allan Poe
In the greenest of our valleysBy good angels tenanted,Once a fair and stately palace—Radiant palace—reared its head.In the monarch Thought's dominionIt stood there!Never seraph spread a pinionOver fabric half so fair.
In the greenest of our valleys
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace—
Radiant palace—reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion
It stood there!
Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair.
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,On its roof did float and flow,(This—all this—was in the oldenTime long ago),And every gentle air that dalliedIn that sweet day,Along the ramparts plumed and pallidA wingèd odour went away.
Banners yellow, glorious, golden,
On its roof did float and flow,
(This—all this—was in the olden
Time long ago),
And every gentle air that dallied
In that sweet day,
Along the ramparts plumed and pallid
A wingèd odour went away.
Wanderers, in that happy valley,Through two luminous windows sawSpirits moving musically,To a lute's well-tunèd law,Round about a throne, where sitting(Porphyrogene),In state his glory well befitting,The ruler of the realm was seen.
Wanderers, in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows saw
Spirits moving musically,
To a lute's well-tunèd law,
Round about a throne, where sitting
(Porphyrogene),
In state his glory well befitting,
The ruler of the realm was seen.
And all with pearl and ruby glowingWas the fair palace door,Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,And sparkling evermore,A troop of Echoes, whose sweet dutyWas but to sing,In voices of surpassing beauty,The wit and wisdom of their king.
And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace door,
Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing,
And sparkling evermore,
A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,
In voices of surpassing beauty,
The wit and wisdom of their king.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,Assailed the monarch's high estate.(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrowShall dawn upon him desolate!)And round about his home, the glory,That blushed and bloomed,Is but a dim-remembered storyOf the old time entombed.
But evil things, in robes of sorrow,
Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn, for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate!)
And round about his home, the glory,
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.
And travellers, now, within that valley,Through the red-litten windows seeVast forms, that move fantasticallyTo a discordant melody;While, like a ghastly rapid river,Through the pale doorA hideous throng rush out for ever,And laugh—but smile no more.Edgar Allan Poe
And travellers, now, within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody;
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door
A hideous throng rush out for ever,
And laugh—but smile no more.
Edgar Allan Poe
348
THE HOUSE OF RICHESSEneighbouring the gate of Hell into which Mammon led the elfin knight... That houses forme within was rude and strong,Like an huge cave, hewne out of rocky clift,From whose rough vaut the ragged breaches hong,Embost with massy gold of glorious gift,And with rich metall loaded every rift,That heavy ruine they did seeme to threat;And over themArachnehigh did liftHer cunning web, and spred her subtile net,Enwrappèd in fowle smoke and clouds more blacke then jet.Both roofe, and floore, and wals were all of gold,But overgrowne with dust and old decay,And hid in darkenesse, that none could beholdThe hew thereof: for vew of chearefull dayDid never in that house it selfe display,But a faint shadow of uncertain light;Such as a lamp, whose life does fade away:Or as the Noone cloathèd with clowdy night,Does shew to him that walkes in feare and sad affright.In all that rowme was nothing to be seene,But huge great yron chests and coffers strong,All bard with double bends,[152]that none could weeneThem to efforce by violence or wrong;On every side they placèd were along.But all the ground with sculs was scatterèd,And dead mens bones, which round about were flong,Whose lives, it seemèd, whilome there were shed,And their vile carcases now left unburièd....Edmund Spenser
neighbouring the gate of Hell into which Mammon led the elfin knight
... That houses forme within was rude and strong,Like an huge cave, hewne out of rocky clift,From whose rough vaut the ragged breaches hong,Embost with massy gold of glorious gift,And with rich metall loaded every rift,That heavy ruine they did seeme to threat;And over themArachnehigh did liftHer cunning web, and spred her subtile net,Enwrappèd in fowle smoke and clouds more blacke then jet.Both roofe, and floore, and wals were all of gold,But overgrowne with dust and old decay,And hid in darkenesse, that none could beholdThe hew thereof: for vew of chearefull dayDid never in that house it selfe display,But a faint shadow of uncertain light;Such as a lamp, whose life does fade away:Or as the Noone cloathèd with clowdy night,Does shew to him that walkes in feare and sad affright.In all that rowme was nothing to be seene,But huge great yron chests and coffers strong,All bard with double bends,[152]that none could weeneThem to efforce by violence or wrong;On every side they placèd were along.But all the ground with sculs was scatterèd,And dead mens bones, which round about were flong,Whose lives, it seemèd, whilome there were shed,And their vile carcases now left unburièd....Edmund Spenser
... That houses forme within was rude and strong,Like an huge cave, hewne out of rocky clift,From whose rough vaut the ragged breaches hong,Embost with massy gold of glorious gift,And with rich metall loaded every rift,That heavy ruine they did seeme to threat;And over themArachnehigh did liftHer cunning web, and spred her subtile net,Enwrappèd in fowle smoke and clouds more blacke then jet.
... That houses forme within was rude and strong,
Like an huge cave, hewne out of rocky clift,
From whose rough vaut the ragged breaches hong,
Embost with massy gold of glorious gift,
And with rich metall loaded every rift,
That heavy ruine they did seeme to threat;
And over themArachnehigh did lift
Her cunning web, and spred her subtile net,
Enwrappèd in fowle smoke and clouds more blacke then jet.
Both roofe, and floore, and wals were all of gold,But overgrowne with dust and old decay,And hid in darkenesse, that none could beholdThe hew thereof: for vew of chearefull dayDid never in that house it selfe display,But a faint shadow of uncertain light;Such as a lamp, whose life does fade away:Or as the Noone cloathèd with clowdy night,Does shew to him that walkes in feare and sad affright.
Both roofe, and floore, and wals were all of gold,
But overgrowne with dust and old decay,
And hid in darkenesse, that none could behold
The hew thereof: for vew of chearefull day
Did never in that house it selfe display,
But a faint shadow of uncertain light;
Such as a lamp, whose life does fade away:
Or as the Noone cloathèd with clowdy night,
Does shew to him that walkes in feare and sad affright.
In all that rowme was nothing to be seene,But huge great yron chests and coffers strong,All bard with double bends,[152]that none could weeneThem to efforce by violence or wrong;On every side they placèd were along.But all the ground with sculs was scatterèd,And dead mens bones, which round about were flong,Whose lives, it seemèd, whilome there were shed,And their vile carcases now left unburièd....Edmund Spenser
In all that rowme was nothing to be seene,
But huge great yron chests and coffers strong,
All bard with double bends,[152]that none could weene
Them to efforce by violence or wrong;
On every side they placèd were along.
But all the ground with sculs was scatterèd,
And dead mens bones, which round about were flong,
Whose lives, it seemèd, whilome there were shed,
And their vile carcases now left unburièd....
Edmund Spenser
349
THE OLD CITYThou hast come from the old city,From the gate and the tower,From King and priest and serving manAnd burnished bower,From beggar's whine and barking dogs,From prison sealed—Thou hast come from the old cityInto the field.The gables in the old cityAre stooping awry,They gloom upon the muddy lanesAnd smother the sky,And nightly through those mouldy lanes,Moping and slow,They who builded the old cityThe cold ghosts go.There is plague in the old city,And the priests are spedTo graveyard and vaultTo bury the dead;Brittle bones and dusty breathTo death must yield—Fly, fly, from the old cityInto the field!Ruth Manning-Sanders
Thou hast come from the old city,From the gate and the tower,From King and priest and serving manAnd burnished bower,From beggar's whine and barking dogs,From prison sealed—Thou hast come from the old cityInto the field.The gables in the old cityAre stooping awry,They gloom upon the muddy lanesAnd smother the sky,And nightly through those mouldy lanes,Moping and slow,They who builded the old cityThe cold ghosts go.There is plague in the old city,And the priests are spedTo graveyard and vaultTo bury the dead;Brittle bones and dusty breathTo death must yield—Fly, fly, from the old cityInto the field!Ruth Manning-Sanders
Thou hast come from the old city,From the gate and the tower,From King and priest and serving manAnd burnished bower,From beggar's whine and barking dogs,From prison sealed—Thou hast come from the old cityInto the field.
Thou hast come from the old city,
From the gate and the tower,
From King and priest and serving man
And burnished bower,
From beggar's whine and barking dogs,
From prison sealed—
Thou hast come from the old city
Into the field.
The gables in the old cityAre stooping awry,They gloom upon the muddy lanesAnd smother the sky,And nightly through those mouldy lanes,Moping and slow,They who builded the old cityThe cold ghosts go.
The gables in the old city
Are stooping awry,
They gloom upon the muddy lanes
And smother the sky,
And nightly through those mouldy lanes,
Moping and slow,
They who builded the old city
The cold ghosts go.
There is plague in the old city,And the priests are spedTo graveyard and vaultTo bury the dead;Brittle bones and dusty breathTo death must yield—Fly, fly, from the old cityInto the field!Ruth Manning-Sanders
There is plague in the old city,
And the priests are sped
To graveyard and vault
To bury the dead;
Brittle bones and dusty breath
To death must yield—
Fly, fly, from the old city
Into the field!
Ruth Manning-Sanders
350
THE TWO SPIRITSFirst Spirit.O Thou, who plumed with strong desireWouldst float above the earth, beware!A shadow tracks the flight of fire—Night is coming!Bright are the regions of the air,And among the winds and beamsIt were delight to wander there—Night is coming!Second Spirit.The deathless stars are bright above;If I would cross the shade of night,Within my heart is the lamp of love,And that is day!And the moon will smile with gentle lightOn my golden plumes where'er they move;The meteors will linger round my flight;And make night day.First Spirit.But if the whirlwinds of darkness wakenHail, and lightning, and stormy rain;See, the bounds of the air are shaken—Night is coming!The red swift clouds of the hurricaneYon declining sun have overtaken,The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain—Night is coming!Second Spirit.I see the light, and I hear the sound;I'll sail on the flood of the tempests dark,With the calm within and the light aroundWhich makes night day:And then, when the gloom is deep and stark,Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound;My moon-like flight thou then may'st markOn high, far away.Some say there is a precipiceWhere one vast pine is frozen to ruinO'er piles of snow and chasms of ice'Mid Alpine mountains;And that the languid storm pursuingThat wingèd shape, for ever fliesRound those hoar branches, aye renewingIts aëry fountains.Some say, when nights are dry and clear,And the death-dews sleep on the morass,Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller,Which make night day;And a silver shape, like his early love, doth passUp-borne by her wild and glittering hair,And when he awakes on the fragrant grass,He finds night day.Percy Bysshe Shelley
First Spirit.O Thou, who plumed with strong desireWouldst float above the earth, beware!A shadow tracks the flight of fire—Night is coming!Bright are the regions of the air,And among the winds and beamsIt were delight to wander there—Night is coming!Second Spirit.The deathless stars are bright above;If I would cross the shade of night,Within my heart is the lamp of love,And that is day!And the moon will smile with gentle lightOn my golden plumes where'er they move;The meteors will linger round my flight;And make night day.First Spirit.But if the whirlwinds of darkness wakenHail, and lightning, and stormy rain;See, the bounds of the air are shaken—Night is coming!The red swift clouds of the hurricaneYon declining sun have overtaken,The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain—Night is coming!Second Spirit.I see the light, and I hear the sound;I'll sail on the flood of the tempests dark,With the calm within and the light aroundWhich makes night day:And then, when the gloom is deep and stark,Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound;My moon-like flight thou then may'st markOn high, far away.Some say there is a precipiceWhere one vast pine is frozen to ruinO'er piles of snow and chasms of ice'Mid Alpine mountains;And that the languid storm pursuingThat wingèd shape, for ever fliesRound those hoar branches, aye renewingIts aëry fountains.Some say, when nights are dry and clear,And the death-dews sleep on the morass,Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller,Which make night day;And a silver shape, like his early love, doth passUp-borne by her wild and glittering hair,And when he awakes on the fragrant grass,He finds night day.Percy Bysshe Shelley
First Spirit.O Thou, who plumed with strong desireWouldst float above the earth, beware!A shadow tracks the flight of fire—Night is coming!Bright are the regions of the air,And among the winds and beamsIt were delight to wander there—Night is coming!
First Spirit.O Thou, who plumed with strong desire
Wouldst float above the earth, beware!
A shadow tracks the flight of fire—
Night is coming!
Bright are the regions of the air,
And among the winds and beams
It were delight to wander there—
Night is coming!
Second Spirit.The deathless stars are bright above;If I would cross the shade of night,Within my heart is the lamp of love,And that is day!And the moon will smile with gentle lightOn my golden plumes where'er they move;The meteors will linger round my flight;And make night day.
Second Spirit.The deathless stars are bright above;
If I would cross the shade of night,
Within my heart is the lamp of love,
And that is day!
And the moon will smile with gentle light
On my golden plumes where'er they move;
The meteors will linger round my flight;
And make night day.
First Spirit.But if the whirlwinds of darkness wakenHail, and lightning, and stormy rain;See, the bounds of the air are shaken—Night is coming!The red swift clouds of the hurricaneYon declining sun have overtaken,The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain—Night is coming!
First Spirit.But if the whirlwinds of darkness waken
Hail, and lightning, and stormy rain;
See, the bounds of the air are shaken—
Night is coming!
The red swift clouds of the hurricane
Yon declining sun have overtaken,
The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain—
Night is coming!
Second Spirit.I see the light, and I hear the sound;I'll sail on the flood of the tempests dark,With the calm within and the light aroundWhich makes night day:And then, when the gloom is deep and stark,Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound;My moon-like flight thou then may'st markOn high, far away.
Second Spirit.I see the light, and I hear the sound;
I'll sail on the flood of the tempests dark,
With the calm within and the light around
Which makes night day:
And then, when the gloom is deep and stark,
Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound;
My moon-like flight thou then may'st mark
On high, far away.
Some say there is a precipiceWhere one vast pine is frozen to ruinO'er piles of snow and chasms of ice'Mid Alpine mountains;And that the languid storm pursuingThat wingèd shape, for ever fliesRound those hoar branches, aye renewingIts aëry fountains.
Some say there is a precipice
Where one vast pine is frozen to ruin
O'er piles of snow and chasms of ice
'Mid Alpine mountains;
And that the languid storm pursuing
That wingèd shape, for ever flies
Round those hoar branches, aye renewing
Its aëry fountains.
Some say, when nights are dry and clear,And the death-dews sleep on the morass,Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller,Which make night day;And a silver shape, like his early love, doth passUp-borne by her wild and glittering hair,And when he awakes on the fragrant grass,He finds night day.Percy Bysshe Shelley
Some say, when nights are dry and clear,
And the death-dews sleep on the morass,
Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller,
Which make night day;
And a silver shape, like his early love, doth pass
Up-borne by her wild and glittering hair,
And when he awakes on the fragrant grass,
He finds night day.
Percy Bysshe Shelley