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POEMS WRITTEN IN 1817
537
TO CONSTANTIA
[Dated 1817 by Mrs. Shelley, and printed by her in the Poetical Works, 1839, 1st edition. A copy exists amongst the Shelley MSS. at the Bodleian. See Mr. C. D. Locock's Examination, &c., 1903, p. 46.]
I
The rose[1] that drinks the fountain dew
In the pleasant[2] air of noon,
Grows pale and blue with altered hue—
In the gaze of the nightly moon;
For the planet of frost, so cold and bright,5
Makes it wan with her[3] borrowed light.
The rose[1] that drinks the fountain dew
In the pleasant[2] air of noon,
Grows pale and blue with altered hue—
In the gaze of the nightly moon;
For the planet of frost, so cold and bright,5
Makes it wan with her[3] borrowed light.
II
Such is my heart—roses are fair,
And that at best a withered blossom;
But thy false care did idly wear
Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom;10
And fed with love, like air and dew,
Its growth——
Such is my heart—roses are fair,
And that at best a withered blossom;
But thy false care did idly wear
Its withered leaves in a faithless bosom;10
And fed with love, like air and dew,
Its growth——
FRAGMENT: TO ONE SINGING
[Dated 1817 by Mrs. Shelley, and published in the Poetical Works, 1839, 1st edition. The MS. original, by which Mr. Locock has revised and (by one line) enlarged the text, is amongst the Shelley MSS. at the Bodleian. The metre, as Mr. Locock (Examination, &c., 1903, p. 63) points out, is terza rima.]
My spirit like a charmèd bark doth swim
Upon the liquid waves of thy sweet singing,
Far far away[4] into the regions dim
Upon the liquid waves of thy sweet singing,
Far far away[4] into the regions dim
Of rapture—as a boat, with swift sails winging
Its way adown some many-winding river,5
Speeds through dark forests o'er the waters swinging[5]. . .
Its way adown some many-winding river,5
Speeds through dark forests o'er the waters swinging[5]. . .
A FRAGMENT: TO MUSIC
[Published in Poetical Works, 1839, 1st ed. Dated 1817 (Mrs. Shelley).]
Silver key of the fountain of tears,
Where the spirit drinks till the brain is wild;
Softest grave of a thousand fears,
Where their mother, Care, like a drowsy child,
Is laid asleep in flowers.5
Where the spirit drinks till the brain is wild;
Softest grave of a thousand fears,
Where their mother, Care, like a drowsy child,
Is laid asleep in flowers.5
ANOTHER FRAGMENT TO MUSIC
[Published in Poetical Works, 1839, 1st ed. Dated 1817 (Mrs. Shelley).]
No, Music, thou art not the 'food of Love.'
Unless Love feeds upon its own sweet self,
Till it becomes all Music murmurs of.
Unless Love feeds upon its own sweet self,
Till it becomes all Music murmurs of.
