« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
Their unremaining gods and they
Thou remainest such alway.
Thou art but the mind's first chamber,
But the portal of the grave,
Peace! the abyss is wreathed with scorn
What is heaven? and what are ye
What are suns and spheres which flee With the instinct of that Spirit
Of which ye are but a part?
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,
With ten millions gathered there,
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,
As chameleons might be,
In a cave beneath the sea.
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
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;
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
Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere
Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
Beside a pumice isle in Baia's bay,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far be
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear!
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 my sore need.
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 :