Their unremaining gods and they Like a river roll away; Thou remainest such alway. SECOND SPIRIT Thou art but the mind's first chamber, But the portal of the grave, THIRD SPIRIT Peace! the abyss is wreathed with scorn What is heaven? and what are ye Who its brief expanse inherit? What are suns and spheres which flee With the instinct of that Spirit Of which ye are but a part? Drops which Nature's mighty heart Drives through thinnest veins. Depart! What is heaven? a globe of dew, Filling in the morning new Some eyed flower whose young leaves waken On an unimagined world; Constellated suns unshaken, Orbits measureless, are furled In that frail and fading sphere, With ten millions gathered there, AN EXHORTATION CHAMELEONS feed on light and air; Poets could but find the same Would they ever change their hue Twenty times a day? Poets are on this cold earth, Yet dare not stain with wealth or power An Exhortation. Published with Prometheus Unbound, 1820. Dated in the Harvard MS., Pisa, April, 1820. ii. 1 on, Shelley, 1820 || in, Harvard MS. As their brother lizards are. ODE TO THE WEST WIND I O WILD West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing, Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red, The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low, Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; II Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's com motion, Ode to the West Wind. Published with Prometheus Unbound, 1820. Composed in the wood near Florence, in the fall. Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread Like the bright hair uplifted from the head Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge Of the dying year, to which this closing night Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, hear! III Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baia's bay, All overgrown with azure moss and flowers Cleave themselves into chasms, while far be low The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, IV If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear; The impulse of thy strength, only less free The comrade of thy wanderings over heaven, As thus with thee in prayer in I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud. Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : |