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It talks according to the wit
THE keen stars were twinkling,
And the fair moon was rising among them,
The guitar was tinkling,
But the notes were not sweet till you sung them
As the moon's soft splendor
O'er the faint cold starlight of heaven
your voice most tender
To the strings without soul had then given
90 For our beloved Jane, Trelawny MS. || For our beloved friend, Medwin, 1832; For one beloved friend, Palgrave.
To a To Jane, Trelawny MS. || ii.-iv., An Ariette for Music. Lady singing to her Accompaniment on the Guitar. The Athenæum, November 17, 1832, Mrs. Shelley, 18391. i.-iv., To. Mrs. Shelley, 18392. Published by Medwin and Mrs. Shelley, as above.
i. 3 Dear. . . Mrs. Shelley, 18392.
ii. 4 your, Mrs. Shelley, 18392, || thy Medwin, 1832.
5 had then, Mrs. Shelley, 18392 || has, Medwin, 1832.
The stars will awaken,
Though the moon sleep a full hour later
No leaf will be shaken
Whilst the dews of your melody scatter
Though the sound overpowers,
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling
THESE are two friends whose lives were undivided; So let their memory be, now they have glided Under the grave; let not their bones be parted, For their two hearts in life were single-hearted.
THERE was a little lawny islet
Like mosaic, paven ;
iii. 5 your, Mrs. Shelley, 18392 || thy, Medwin, 1832.
iv. 2 your dear, Mrs. Shelley, 18392 || thy sweet, Medwin, 1832.
Epitaph. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.
3 the || their, Mrs. Shelley, 18392.
The Isle. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.
And its roof was flowers and leaves
Girt by many an azure wave
With which the clouds and mountains pave
ROUGH wind, that moanest loud
LINES WRITTEN IN THE BAY OF LERICI
SHE left me at the silent time
When the moon had ceased to climb
A Dirge. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.
6 strain, Rossetti conj. || stain, Mrs. Shelley, 1824. Lines Written in the Bay of Lerici. Macmillan's Magazine, June, 1862.
Published by Garnett,
Ere she sought her ocean nest
Like notes which die when born, but still
And feeling ever - oh, too much! -
In the time which is our own;
In my faint heart. I dare not speak
I sat and saw the vessels glide
Over the ocean bright and wide,
37 They, Rossetti || omit, Garnett, 1862.
And the wind that winged their flight