"If Winter Comes"
October 18, 2014 |
| Percy Bysshe Shelley |
Percy Bysshe
Shelley (1792–1822)
Vol. 41, pp. 829-835 of
The Harvard Classics
From the title of a
recently popular novel, we know that one prominent fiction writer of
to-day was inspired by the verses of Shelley. Many others have also
felt the stirring vigor of his poetry. What is your reaction?
To a
Skylark
HAIL to
thee, blithe Spirit!
Bird
thou never wert,
That
from heaven, or near it,
Pourest
thy full heart
In profuse strains of
unpremeditated art
Higher
still and higher
From
the earth thou springest
Like
a cloud of fire;
The
blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost
soar, and soaring ever singest.
In
the golden lightning
Of
the sunken sun
O’er
which clouds are brightening,
Thou
dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy
whose race is just begun.
The
pale purple even
Melts
around thy flight;
Like
a star of heaven
In
the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but
yet I hear thy shrill delight:
Keen
as are the arrows
Of
that silver sphere,
Whose
intense lamp narrows
In
the white dawn clear
Until we hardly see, we
feel that it is there.
All
the earth and air
With
thy voice is loud,
As,
when night is bare,
From
one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her
beams, and heaven is overflow’d.
What
thou art we know not;
What
is most like thee?
From
rainbow clouds there flow not
Drops
so bright to see
As from thy presence
showers a rain of melody.
Like
a poet hidden
In
the light of thought,
Singing
hymns unbidden,
Till
the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes
and fears it heeded not:
Like
a high-born maiden
In
a palace tower,
Soothing
her love-laden
Soul
in secret hour
With music sweet as
love, which overflows her bower:
Like
a glow-worm golden
In
a dell of dew,
Scattering
unbeholden
Its
aerial hue
Among the flowers and
grass, which screen it from the view:
Like
a rose embower’d
In
its own green leaves,
By
warm winds deflower’d,
Till
the scent it gives
Makes faint with too
much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.
Sound
of vernal showers
On
the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken’d
flowers,
All
that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and
fresh, thy music doth surpass.
Teach
us, sprite or bird,
What
sweet thoughts are thine:
I
have never heard
Praise
of love or wine
That panted forth a
flood of rapture so divine.
Chorus
hymeneal
Or
triumphal chaunt
Match’d
with thine, would be all
But
an empty vaunt—
A thing wherein we feel
there is some hidden want.
What
objects are the fountains
Of
thy happy strain?
What
fields, or waves, or mountains?
What
shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own
kind? what ignorance of pain?
With
thy clear keen joyance
Languor
cannot be:
Shadow
of annoyance
Never
came near thee:
Thou lovest; but ne’er
knew love’s sad satiety.
Waking
or asleep
Thou
of death must deem
Things
more true and deep
Than
we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes
flow in such a crystal stream?
We
look before and after,
And
pine for what is not:
Our
sincerest laughter
With
some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are
those that tell of saddest thought.
Yet
if we could scorn
Hate,
and pride, and fear;
If
we were things born
Not
to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy
we ever should come near.
Better
than all measures
Of
delightful sound,
Better
than all treasures
That
in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were,
thou scorner of the ground!
Teach
me half the gladness
That
thy brain must know,
Such
harmonious madness
From
my lips would flow
The world should listen
then, as I am listening now!
Love’s Philosophy
THE
FOUNTAINS mingle with the river
And the rivers with the
ocean,
The winds of heaven mix
for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is
single,
All things by a law
divine
In one another’s
being mingle—
Why not I with thine?
See the mountains kiss
high heaven
And the waves clasp one
another;
No sister-flower would
be forgiven
If it disdain’d its
brother:
And the sunlight clasps
the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss
the sea—
What are all these
kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?
To the Night
SWIFTLY walk
over the western wave,
Spirit
of Night!
Out of the misty
eastern cave
Where, all the long and
lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of
joy and fear
Which make thee
terrible and dear,—
Swift
be thy flight!
Wrap thy form in a
mantle gray
Star-inwrought!
Blind with thine hair
the eyes of day,
Kiss her until she be
wearied out:
Then wander o’er city
and sea and land,
Touching all with thine
opiate wand—
Come,
long-sought!
When I arose and saw
the dawn,
I
sigh’d for thee;
When light rode high,
and the dew was gone,
And noon lay heavy on
flower and tree,
And the weary Day
turn’d to his rest
Lingering like an
unloved guest,
I
sigh’d for thee.
Thy brother Death came,
and cried
Wouldst
thou me?
Thy sweet child Sleep,
the filmy-eyed,
Murmur’d like a
noon-tide bee
Shall I nestle near thy
side?
Wouldst thou me?—And
I replied
No,
not thee!
Death will come when
thou art dead,
Soon,
too soon—
Sleep will come when
thou art fled;
Of neither would I ask
the boon
I ask of thee, belove´d
Night—
Swift be thine
approaching flight,
Come
soon, soon!
Ode to the West Wind
O 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,
Pestilence-stricken
multitudes: O thou
Who chariotest to their
dark wintry bed
The winge´d seeds,
where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse
within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of
the spring shall blow
Her clarion o’er the
dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds
like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and
odours plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art
moving everywhere;
Destroyer and
Preserver; Hear, O hear!
Thou on
whose stream, ’mid the steep sky’s commotion,
Loose clouds like
earth’s decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled
boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and
lightning; there are spread
On the blue surface of
thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair
uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Maenad,
ev’n from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the
zenith’s height—
The locks of the
approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to
which this closing night
Will be the dome of a
vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy
congregated might,
Of vapours, from whose
solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire,
and hail, will burst: O hear!
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
Baiae’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! Thou
For whose path the
Atlantic’s level powers
Cleave themselves into
chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the
oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of
the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly
grow gray with fear
And tremble and despoil
themselves: O hear!
If I were a
dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud
to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath
thy power, and share
The impulse of thy
strength, only less free
Than Thou, O
uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my
boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy
wanderings over heaven,
As then, when to
outstrip thy skyey speed
Scarce seem’d a
vision, I would ne’er have striven
As thus with thee in
prayer in my sore need.
O lift me as a wave, a
leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns
of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours
has chain’d and bow’d
One too like thee:
tameless, and swift, and proud.
Make me thy
lyre, ev’n as the forest is:
What if my leaves are
falling like its own!
The tumult of thy
mighty harmonies
Will take from both a
deep autumnal tone,
Sweet though in
sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! be thou me,
impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts
over the universe
Like wither’d leaves,
to quicken a new birth;
And, by the incantation
of this verse,
Scatter, as from an
unextinguish’d hearth
Ashes and sparks, my
words among mankind!
Be through my lips to
unawaken’d earth
The trumpet of a
prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can
Spring be far behind?
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