Page:Prometheus Unbound - Shelley.djvu/67

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This is the season, this the day, the hour;
      At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet sister mine,
      Too long desired, too long delaying, come!
      How like death-worms the wingless moments crawl!
      The point of one white star is quivering still
      Deep in the orange light of widening morn
      Beyond the purple mountains; through a chasm
      Of wind-divided mist the darker lake
      Reflects it; now it wanes; it gleams again
      As the waves fade, and as the burning threads
      Of woven cloud unravel in pale air;
      'T is lost! and through yon peaks of cloudlike snow
      The roseate sunlight quivers; hear I not
      The Æolian music of her sea-green plumes
      Winnowing the crimson dawn?

PANTHEA enters
                                   I feel, I see
      Those eyes which burn through smiles that fade in tears,
      Like stars half-quenched in mists of silver dew.
      Belovèd and most beautiful, who wearest
      The shadow of that soul by which I live,
      How late thou art! the spherèd sun had climbed
      The sea; my heart was sick with hope, before
      The printless air felt thy belated plumes.