Thou, whose exterior semblance doth belie 110 Thou best Philosopher, who yet dost keep Mighty Prophet! Seer blest 115 120 On whom those truths do rest Which we are toiling all our lives to find, In darkness lost, the darkness of the grave; Thou, over whom thy Immortality Broods like the Day, a Master o'er a Slave, A Presence which is not to be put by; Thou little Child, yet glorious in the might Of heaven-born freedom on thy being's height, Why with such earnest pains dost thou provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke, Thus blindly with thy blessedness at strife? Full soon thy Soul shall have her earthly freight, And custom lie upon thee with a weight Heavy as frost, and deep almost as life! O joy! that in our embers 124 130 The thought of our past years in me doth breed Perpetual benediction: not indeed For that which is most worthy to be blest, 135 Delight and liberty, the simple creed Of Childhood, whether busy or at rest, With new-fledged hope still fluttering in his breast: -Not for these I raise The song of thanks and praise ; But for those obstinate questionings Moving about in worlds not realized, 140 145 High instincts, before which our mortal nature Which, be they what they may, Uphold us, cherish, and have power to make Our noisy years seem moments in the being 150 Of the eternal silence: truths that wake, 155 Which neither listlessness, nor mad endeavour, Nor all that is at enmity with joy, Hence in a season of calm weather Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Can in a moment travel thither And see the children sport upon the shore, Then, sing ye birds, sing, sing a joyous song ! We, in thought, will join your throng Ye that through your hearts to-day 160 165 170 What though the radiance which was once so bright Be now for ever taken from my sight, 176 Though nothing can bring back the hour Which having been must ever be ; 180 Out of human suffering ; In the faith that looks through death, And O, ye Fountains, Meadows, Hills, and Groves, Yet in my heart of hearts I feel your might ; To live beneath your more habitual sway; 190 I love the brooks which down their channels fret, Even more than when I tripp'd lightly as they ; The innocent brightness of a new-born day Is lovely yet; 195 The clouds that gather round the setting sun 201 288 Music, when soft voices die, Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Rose leaves, when the rose is dead, And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone, P. B. SHELLEY. |