POEMS WRITTEN IN 1819
577
TO WILLIAM SHELLEY
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, P. W., 1839, 1st ed.]
Thy little footsteps on the sands
Of a remote and lonely shore;
The twinkling of thine infant hands,
Where now the worm will feed no more;
Thy mingled look of love and glee 5
When we returned to gaze on thee—
Of a remote and lonely shore;
The twinkling of thine infant hands,
Where now the worm will feed no more;
Thy mingled look of love and glee 5
When we returned to gaze on thee—
TO MARY SHELLEY
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, P. W., 1839, 2nd ed.]
My dearest Mary, wherefore hast thou gone,
And left me in this dreary world alone?
Thy form is here indeed—a lovely one—
But thou art fled, gone down the dreary road,
That leads to Sorrow's most obscure abode;
Thou sittest on the hearth of pale despair, 5
Where
For thine own sake I cannot follow thee.
And left me in this dreary world alone?
Thy form is here indeed—a lovely one—
But thou art fled, gone down the dreary road,
That leads to Sorrow's most obscure abode;
Thou sittest on the hearth of pale despair, 5
Where
For thine own sake I cannot follow thee.
TO MARY SHELLEY
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, P. W., 1839, 2nd ed.]
The world is dreary,
And I am weary
Of wandering on without thee, Mary;
A joy was ere while
In thy voice and thy smile, 5
And 'tis gone, when I should be gone too, Mary.
And I am weary
Of wandering on without thee, Mary;
A joy was ere while
In thy voice and thy smile, 5
And 'tis gone, when I should be gone too, Mary.
ON THE MEDUSA OF LEONARDO DA VINCI IN THE FLORENTINE GALLERY
[Published by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824.]
I
It lieth, gazing on the midnight sky,
Upon the cloudy mountain-peak supine;
Below, far lands are seen tremblingly;
Its horror and its beauty are divine.
Upon its lips and eyelids seems[1] to lie 5
Loveliness like a shadow, from which shine,[2]
Fiery and lurid, struggling underneath,
The agonies of anguish and of death.
It lieth, gazing on the midnight sky,
Upon the cloudy mountain-peak supine;
Below, far lands are seen tremblingly;
Its horror and its beauty are divine.
Upon its lips and eyelids seems[1] to lie 5
Loveliness like a shadow, from which shine,[2]
Fiery and lurid, struggling underneath,
The agonies of anguish and of death.
II
Yet it is less the horror than the grace
Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone, 10
Whereon the lineaments of that dead face
Are graven, till the characters be grown
Into itself, and thought no more can trace;
'Tis the melodious hue of beauty thrown
Yet it is less the horror than the grace
Which turns the gazer's spirit into stone, 10
Whereon the lineaments of that dead face
Are graven, till the characters be grown
Into itself, and thought no more can trace;
'Tis the melodious hue of beauty thrown
