POEMS WRITTEN IN 1818
549
Heard in its raging ebb and flow 5
By the captives pent in the cave below.
The Apennine in the light of day
Is a mighty mountain dim and gray,
Which between the earth and sky doth lay;
But when night comes, a chaos dread 10
On the dim starlight then is spread.
And the Apennine walks abroad with the storm,
Shrouding . . .
By the captives pent in the cave below.
The Apennine in the light of day
Is a mighty mountain dim and gray,
Which between the earth and sky doth lay;
But when night comes, a chaos dread 10
On the dim starlight then is spread.
And the Apennine walks abroad with the storm,
Shrouding . . .
THE PAST
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824.]
I
Wilt thou forget the happy hours
Which we buried in Love's sweet bowers,
Heaping over their corpses cold
Blossoms and leaves, instead of mould?
Blossoms which were the joys that fell, 5
And leaves, the hopes that yet remain.
Wilt thou forget the happy hours
Which we buried in Love's sweet bowers,
Heaping over their corpses cold
Blossoms and leaves, instead of mould?
Blossoms which were the joys that fell, 5
And leaves, the hopes that yet remain.
II
Forget the dead, the past? Oh, yet
There are ghosts that may take revenge for it,
Memories that make the heart a tomb,
Regrets which glide through the spirit's gloom, 10
And with ghastly whispers tell
That joy, once lost, is pain.
Forget the dead, the past? Oh, yet
There are ghosts that may take revenge for it,
Memories that make the heart a tomb,
Regrets which glide through the spirit's gloom, 10
And with ghastly whispers tell
That joy, once lost, is pain.
TO MARY ———
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824.]
O Mary dear, that you were here
With your brown eyes bright and clear,
And your sweet voice, like a bird
Singing love to its lone mate
In the ivy bower disconsolate: 5
Voice the sweetest ever heard!
And your brow more . . . .
Than thesky
Of this azure Italy.
Mary dear, come to me soon, 10
I am not well whilst thou art far;
As sunset to the spherèd moon,
As twilight to the western star,
Thou, belovèd, art to me.
O Mary dear, that you were here; 15
The Castle echo whispers 'Here!'
With your brown eyes bright and clear,
And your sweet voice, like a bird
Singing love to its lone mate
In the ivy bower disconsolate: 5
Voice the sweetest ever heard!
And your brow more . . . .
Than thesky
Of this azure Italy.
Mary dear, come to me soon, 10
I am not well whilst thou art far;
As sunset to the spherèd moon,
As twilight to the western star,
Thou, belovèd, art to me.
O Mary dear, that you were here; 15
The Castle echo whispers 'Here!'
ON A FADED VIOLET
[Published by Hunt, Literary Pocket-Book, 1821. Reprinted by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824. Again reprinted, with several variants, P. W., 1839, 1st ed. Our text is that of the editio princeps, 1821. A transcript is extant in a letter from Shelley to Sophia Stacey, dated March 7, 1820.]
