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Perhaps we should be dull were we not chidden; Paradise fruits are sweetest when forbidden. Folly can season Wisdom, Hatred Love.
Farewell, if it can be to say farewell
I will not, as most dedicators do, Assure myself and all the world and you, That you are faultless would to God they were Who taunt me with your love! I then should wear These heavy chains of life with a light spirit, And would to God I were, or even as near it As you, dear heart. Alas! what are we? Clouds Driven by the wind in warring multitudes, Which rain into the bosom of the earth,
And rise again, and in our death and birth,
And through our restless life, take as from heaven
Which makes in mortal hearts its brief abode,
Love, only love a wind which o'er the wires
There is a mood which language faints beneath;
And what is that most brief and bright delight Which rushes through the touch and through the sight,
And stands before the spirit's inmost throne,
It floats with rainbow pinions o'er the stream
What is that joy which serene infancy
Of this great world, which all things must inherit,
Were it not a sweet refuge, Emily,
For all those exiles from the dull insane
Who vex this pleasant world with pride and pain, For all that band of sister-spirits known
To one another by a voiceless tone?
LINES WRITTEN FOR ADONAIS
And ever as he went he swept a lyre
Of the enamoured wind among the treen,
And the green Paradise which western waves
And then came one of sweet and earnest looks, Whose soft smiles to his dark and night-like eyes Were as the clear and ever living brooks Are to the obscure fountains whence they rise, Showing how pure they are: a Paradise Of happy truth upon his forehead low Lay, making wisdom lovely, in the guise Of earth-awakening morn upon the brow Of star-deserted heaven, while ocean gleams below. Lines written for Adonais. Published by Garnett, 1862.
His song, though very sweet, was low and faint, A simple strain
A mighty Phantasm, half concealed In darkness of his own exceeding light, Which clothed his awful presence unrevealed, Charioted on the night Of thunder-smoke, whose skirts were chrysolite.
And like a sudden meteor, which outstrips
The armies of the golden stars, each one
LINES WRITTEN FOR HELLAS
FAIREST of the Destinies,
Than the winged [bolts] thou bearest,
Wraps thee as a star
Is wrapped in light.
Could Arethuse to her forsaken urn
Lines Written for Hellas. Published by Garnett, 1862.
Again into the quivers of the Sun
Be gathered could one thought from its wild
Return into the temple of the brain
Without a change, without a stain,
A star has fallen upon the earth
A quenchless atom of immortal light,
A cresset shaken from the constellations.
To the heart of Earth, the well
Guides the sphere which is its prison,
Shatters its charnel, it has rent,
The thin and painted garment of the Earth,