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Autumn evening, and the morn
When the golden mists are born.


I love snow, and all the forms

Of the radiant frost;
I love waves, and winds, and storms,

Everything almost
Which is Nature's, and may be
Untainted by man's misery.

I love tranquil solitude,

And such society
As is quiet, wise, and good;

Between thee and me
What difference? but thou dost possess
The things I seek, not love them less.

I love Love — though he has wings,

And like light can flee,
But above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee.
Thou art love and life! Oh, come,
Make once more my heart thy home.



SWIFTLY walk o'er the western wave,

Spirit of Night!
Out of the misty eastern cave,
Where all the long and lone daylight
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear,-

Swift be thy flight !


Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,

Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day;
Kiss her until she be wearied out;
Then wander o'er city, and sea, and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand -

Come, long-sought!


When I arose and saw the dawn,

I sighed for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turned to his rest, Lingering like an unloved guest,

I sighed for thee.

To Night. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824. i. 1 o'er, Harvard MS. || over, Mrs. Shelley, 1824. iii. 5 his || her, Rossetti.


Thy brother Death came, and cried,

Wouldst thou me?
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmured like a noontide bee,
Shall I nestle near thy side ?
Wouldst thou me ? — and I replied,

No, not thee!


Death will come when thou art dead,

Soon, too soon;
Sleep will come when thou art fled ;
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, beloved Night,
Swift be thine approaching flight,

Come soon, soon!


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

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

To — Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.


I WHEN passion's trance is overpast, If tenderness and truth could last, Or live, whilst all wild feelings keep Some mortal slumber, dark and deep, I should not weep, I should not weep!


It were enough to feel, to see
Thy soft eyes gazing tenderly,
And dream the rest and burn and be
The secret food of fires unseen,
Couldst thou but be as thou hast been.

III After the slumber of the year The woodland violets reappear; All things revive in field or grove, And sky and sea, but two, which move And form all others, life and love.


Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.



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.

Mutability. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824. ii. 2 how, Boscombe MS. || too, Mrs. Shelley, 1824.

5 though soon we, or so soon they, Rossetti conj.

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