PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
And the weary Day turn'd to her rest, Lingering like an unloved guest, I sigh'd for thee.
Thy brother Death came, and cried, Wouldst thou mc ?J
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmur'd like a noontide 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 thcc, beloved Night Swift be thine approaching flight, Come soon, soon '
��620 From the Arabic
AN IMITATION
MY faint spirit was sitting in the light Of thy looks, my love, It panted for thee like the hind at noon
For the brooks, my love. Thy barb, whose hoofs outspecd the tempest's flight,
Bore thee far from me; My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon,
Did companion thee.
�� �
