576
POEMS WRITTEN IN 1819
TO SOPHIA [MISS STACEY]
[Published by W. M. Rossetti, Complete P. W., 1870.]
I
Thou art fair, and few are fairer
Of the Nymphs of earth or ocean;
They are robes that fit the wearer—
Those soft limbs of thine, whose motion
Ever falls and shifts and glances 5
As the life within them dances.
Thou art fair, and few are fairer
Of the Nymphs of earth or ocean;
They are robes that fit the wearer—
Those soft limbs of thine, whose motion
Ever falls and shifts and glances 5
As the life within them dances.
II
Thy deep eyes, a double Planet,
Gaze the wisest into madness
With soft clear fire,—the winds that fan it
Are those thoughts of tender gladness 10
Which, like zephyrs on the billow,
Make thy gentle soul their pillow.
Thy deep eyes, a double Planet,
Gaze the wisest into madness
With soft clear fire,—the winds that fan it
Are those thoughts of tender gladness 10
Which, like zephyrs on the billow,
Make thy gentle soul their pillow.
III
If, whatever face thou paintest
In those eyes, grows pale with pleasure,
If the fainting soul is faintest 15
When it hears thy harp's wild measure,
Wonder not that when thou speakest
Of the weak my heart is weakest.
If, whatever face thou paintest
In those eyes, grows pale with pleasure,
If the fainting soul is faintest 15
When it hears thy harp's wild measure,
Wonder not that when thou speakest
Of the weak my heart is weakest.
IV
As dew beneath the wind of morning,
As the sea which whirlwinds waken, 20
As the birds at thunder's warning,
As aught mute yet deeply shaken,
As one who feels an unseen spirit
Is my heart when thine is near it.
As dew beneath the wind of morning,
As the sea which whirlwinds waken, 20
As the birds at thunder's warning,
As aught mute yet deeply shaken,
As one who feels an unseen spirit
Is my heart when thine is near it.
TO WILLIAM SHELLEY
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Works, 1824. The fragment included in the Harvard MS. book.]
I
My lost William, thou in whom
Some bright spirit lived, and did
That decaying robe consume
Which its lustre faintly hid,—
Here its ashes find a tomb. 5
But beneath this pyramid
Thou art not—if a thing divine
Like thee can die, thy funeral shrine
Is thy mother's grief and mine.
My lost William, thou in whom
Some bright spirit lived, and did
That decaying robe consume
Which its lustre faintly hid,—
Here its ashes find a tomb. 5
But beneath this pyramid
Thou art not—if a thing divine
Like thee can die, thy funeral shrine
Is thy mother's grief and mine.
