Poem of the Day

I feel the need to follow up yesterday’s selection from Byron with one of Shelley’s.

Hellas
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

The world’s great age begins anew,
The golden years return,
The earth doth like a snake renew
Her wintry weeds outworn:
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.

A brighter Hellas rears its mountains
From waves serener far;
A new Peneus rolls his fountains
Against the morning star;
Where fairer Tempes bloom, there sleep
Young Cyclads on a sunnier deep.

A loftier Argo claims the main,
Fraught with a later prize;
Another Orpheus sings again,
And loves, and weeps, and dies;
A new Ulysses leaves once more
Calypso for his native shore.

O write no more the tale of Troy,
If earth Death’s scroll must be—
Nor mix with Laian rage the joy
Which dawns upon the free,
Although a subtler Sphinx renew
Riddles of death Thebes never knew.

Another Athens shall arise,
And to remoter time
Bequeath, like sunset to the skies,
The splendour of its prime;
And leave, if naught so bright may live,
All earth can take or Heaven give.

Saturn and Love their long repose
Shall burst, more bright and good
Than all who fell, than One who rose,
Than many unsubdued:
Not gold, not blood, their altar dowers,
But votive tears and symbol flowers.

O cease! must hate and death return?
Cease! must men kill and die?
Cease! drain not its dregs the urn
Of bitter prophecy!
The world is weary of the past—
O might it die or rest at last!

I think my inner (or outer, more often than I’d like…) drama queen loves Shelley. He doesn’t really screw around with throwing all his emotions out there. One line that’s always stuck with me is O World! O Life! O Time! / On whose last steps I climb. And then there’s this one: I die! I faint! I fail! / Let thy love in kisses rain / On my lips and eyelids pale. I don’t know about you, but I don’t know anyone who talks like that. Of course, while I can accept it from Shelley (who seems to have adopted the persona of a passionate youth, in my mind), it would seem cheesy from pretty much anyone else. Maybe it’s because he is such a tragic figure. At any rate, it will take a long time to post all his poems, so I like that I can just go hunting for a new one to post whenever the urge strikes me.

The Indian Serenade
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me—who knows how?
To thy chamber window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream—
And the Champak’s odours [pine]
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale’s complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must on thine,
O belovèd as thou art!

O lift me from the grass!
I die! I faint! I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast:
O press it to thine own again,
Where it will break at last!

I was missing my dear Percy, so here’s a depressing poem from him.

Bereavement
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner
As he bends in still grief o’er the hallowed bier,
As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner,
And drops to perfection’s remembrance a tear;
When floods of despair down his pale cheeks are streaming,
When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming,
Or, if lulled for a while, soon he starts from his dreaming,
And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.
Ah, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave,
Or summer succeed to the winter of death?
Rest awhle, hapless victim! and Heaven will save
The spirit that hath faded away with the breath.
Eternity points, in its amaranth bower
Where no clouds of fate o’er the sweet prospect lour,
Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower,
When woe fades away like the mist of the heath.

I was in the mood for a sonnet and found this one.

To Wordsworth
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know
That things depart which never may return:
Childhood and youth, friendship and love’s first glow,
Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn.
These common woes I feel. One loss is mine
Which thou too feel’st, yet I alone deplore.
Thou wert as a lone star, whose light did shine
On some frail bark in winter’s midnight roar:
Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood
Above the blind and battling multitude:
In honored poverty thy voice did weave
Songs consecrate to truth and liberty,—
Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve,
Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to be.

Current Tea: fasting tea (green mate, lemongrass, rose hip peels, ginger roots, Roman Chamomile, cardamom, black papper and basil)

I had to include one from dear Percy!

Remorse
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon,
Rapid clouds have drunk the last pale beam of even:
Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon,
And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.
Pause not! the time is past! Every voice cries ‘Away!’
Tempt not with one last tear thy friend’s ungentle mood:
Thy lover’s eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay:
Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.

Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;
Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth;
Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come,
And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.
The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head,
The blooms of dewy Spring shall gleam beneath thy feet:
But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead,
Ere midnight’s frown and morning’s smile, ere thou and peace, may meet.

The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose,
For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep;
Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows;
Whatever moves or toils or grieves hath its appointed sleep.
Thou in the grave shall rest:—yet, till the phantoms flee,
Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile,
Thy remembrance and repentance and deep musings are not free
From the music of two voices, and the light of one sweet smile.

I wrote a paper on Shelley my sophomore year in HS (on which I got a C because my teacher was a bit unreasonable). I’m pretty sure this was one of the poems I “analyzed” for the paper.

Hymn of Pan
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

From the forests and highlands
   We come, we come;
From the river-girt islands,
   Where loud waves are dumb
Listening to my sweet pipings.
      The wind in the reeds and the rushes,
      The bees on the bells of thyme,
      The birds on the myrtle-bushes,
      The cicale above in the lime,
         And the lizards below in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,
         Listening to my sweet pipings.

Liquid Peneus was flowing—
   And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion’s shadow, outgrowing
   The light of the dying day,
   Speeded by my sweet pipings.
      The Sileni and Sylvans and fauns,
      And the Nymphs of the woods and wave
      To the edge of the moist river-lawns,
      And the brink of the dewy caves,
         And all that did then attend and follow,
Were silent with love,—as you now, Apollo,
         With envy of my sweet pipings.

I sang of the dancing stars,
   I sang of the dedal earth,
And of heaven, and the Giant wars,
   And Love, and Death, and Birth.
      And then I changed my pipings,—
      Singing how down the vale of Mænalus
      I pursued a maiden, and clasped a reed.
      Gods and men, we are all deluded thus;
      It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed.
         All wept—as I think both ye now would,
If envy or age had not frozen your blood—
         At the sorrow of my sweet pipings.

I was just discussing my dear Shelley with a friend so I thought I’d post one of his poems.

One Word Is Too Often Profaned
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

One word is too often profaned
   For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdained
   For thee to disdain it;
One hope is too like despair
   For prudence to smother,
And pity from thee more dear
   Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love,
   But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
   And the heavens reject not,—
The desire of the moth for the star,
   Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
   From the sphere of our sorrow?

Poor Shelley… drowned at the age of 29!

Time
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years,
Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe
Are brackish with the salt of human tears!
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow
Claspest the limits of mortality,
And sick of prey, yet howling on for more,
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore;
Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm,
Who shall put forth on thee,
Unfathomable Sea?

Oh Shelley, how I love thee!

To a Singer
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

My soul is an enchanted boat,
Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float
Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing;
And thine doth like an angel sit
Beside a helm conducting it,
Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing.
It seems to float ever, forever,
Upon that many-winding river,
Between mountains, woods, abysses,
A paradise of wildernesses!
Till, like one in slumber bound,
Borne to the ocean, I float down, around,
Into a sea profound, of ever-spreading sound.

Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions
In music’s most serene dominions;
Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven.
And we sail on, away, afar,
Without a course, without a star,
But by the instinct of sweet music driven;
Till through Elysian garden islets
By thee, most beautiful of pilots,
Where never mortal pinnace glided,
The boat of my desire is guided;
Realms where the air we breathe is love,
Which in the winds on the waves doth move,
Harmonizing this earth with what we feel above.

It’s been a while since I posted something by Shelley…

Art thou pale for weariness
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

   Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
   Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth,
And ever changing, like a joyless eye
That finds no object worth its constancy?

I found a volume of Shelley’s poetry in my bookcase, also. (By the way, no poem tomorrow because I’ll be without a computer or internet.)

A Dirge
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

Rough wind, that moanest loud
   Grief too sad for song;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud
   Knells all the night long;
Sad storm, whose tears are vain,
Bare woods, whose branches strain,
Deep caves and dreary main,
   Wail, for the world’s wrong!

Here’s a cheerful little poem by Shelley! (Just kidding)

Love’s Philosophy
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

The fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law divine
In one another’s being mingle—
Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven,
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdain’d its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea—
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?

I do love Shelley!

Music, when soft voices die
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap’d for the belovèd’s bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

I’ve always liked this poem… so short, yet so despairing…

A Lament
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

O World! O Life! O Time!
On whose last steps I climb,
   Trembling at that where I had stood before;
When will return the glory of your prime?
      No more—oh, never more!
Out of the day and night
A joy has taken flight:
   Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar
Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
      No more—oh, never more!

This makes me think of certain tragic events that happened in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix. Oh, and I love Shelley!

Lift not the painted veil which those who live
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

Lift not the painted veil which those who live
Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe
With colours idly spread,—behind, lurk Fear
And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave
Their shadows, o’er the chasm, sightless and drear.
I knew one who had lifted it—he sought,
For his lost heart was tender, things to love,
But found them not, alas! nor was there aught
The world contains, the which he could approve.
Through the unheeding many he did move,
A splendour among shadows, a bright blot
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove
For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.

I haven’t read any Shelley for a while, though it’s on my list.

Mutability
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

 The flower that smiles to-day
   To-morrow dies;
All that we wish to stay
   Tempts and then flies.
What is this world’s delight?
Lightning that mocks the night,
   Brief even as bright.

 Virtue, how frail it is!
   Friendship how rare!
Love, how it sells poor bliss
   For proud despair!
But we, though soon they fall,
Survive their joy, and all
   Which ours we call.

 Whilst skies are blue and bright,
   Whilst flowers are gay,
Whilst eyes that change ere night
   Make glad the day;
Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream thou—and from thy sleep
   Then wake to weep.4

I’ve loved this poem since I first read it in high school. I think it’s best read aloud, in a rather theatrical voice.

Ozymandias
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
“My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

When I was a sophomore in high school, my English teacher was a bit… moody, shall we say. Most of the time she gave me A’s on my essays because I used PrintShop to make pretty covers. However, for our big paper on a poet (I chose Percy Bysshe Shelley), she gave me her college text with notes and tried to be helpful. Then she gave me a C without any comments whatsoever. I had only ever gotten one C in my life (in handwriting in fourth grade) and I was quite distressed. So I went to talk to her and she just said I hadn’t analyzed the poems enough. Good grief! I was a sophomore in HS and she was not a good teacher! What do you want from me? She ended up giving me a better grade after I cried. Ah, memories… Anyway, this was my favorite poem by Shelley.

Stanzas Written in Dejection Near Naples
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

The sun is warm, the sky is clear,
The waves are dancing fast and bright,
Blue isles and snowy mountains wear
The purple noon’s transparent might,
The breath of the moist air is light,
Around its unexpanded buds;
Like many a voice of one delight,
The winds’, the birds’, the ocean floods’,
The City’s voice itself, is soft like Solitude’s.

I see the Deep’s untrampled floor
With green and purple seaweeds strown;
I see the waves upon the shore,
Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown:
I sit upon the sands alone,—
The lightning of the noontide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion,
How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion.

Alas! I have nor hope nor health,
Nor peace within nor calm around,
Nor that content surpassing wealth
The sage in meditation found,
And walked with inward glory crowned—
Nor fame, nor power, nor love, nor leisure.
Others I see whom these surround—
Smiling they live, and call life pleasure;—
To me that cup has been dealt in another measure.

Some might lament that I were cold,
As I, when this sweet day is done,
Which my lost heart, too soon grown old,
Insults with this untimely moan;
They might lament—for I am one
Whom men love not,—and yet regret,
Unlike this day which, when the sun
Shall on its stainless glory set,
Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.

Yet now despair itself is mild,
Even as the winds and waters are;
I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne and yet must bear,
Till death like sleep might steal on me,
And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony.