Sonnet 73

That time of year thou may’st in me behold When yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang Upon those boughs which shake against the cold, Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see'st the twilight of such day As after sunset fadeth in the west; Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire, That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the deathbed whereon it must expire, Consumed with that which it was nourished by. This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long. William Shakespeare

This Is Just To Say

I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox and which you were probably saving for breakfast Forgive me they were delicious so sweet and so cold William Carlos Williams

Holy Thursday 'Twas on a holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean, The children walking two and two, in red, and blue, and green: Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow, Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow. O what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town! Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own. The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs, Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands. Now like a mighty wind they raise to heaven the voice of song, Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among: Beneath them sit the aged men, wise guardians of the poor. Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door. William Blake, Songs of Innocence (1789)

Holy Thursday Is this a holy thing to see In a rich and fruitful land, Babes reduced to misery, Fed with cold and usurous hand? Is that trembling cry a song? Can it be a song of joy? And so many children poor? It is a land of poverty! And their sun does never shine, And their fields are bleak and bare, And their ways are filled with thorns, It is eternal winter there. For where'er the sun does shine, And where'er the rain does fall, Babe can never hunger there, Nor poverty the mind appal. William Blake, Songs of Experience (1794)

Infant Joy 'I have no name; I am but two days old.' What shall I call thee? 'I happy am, Joy is my name.' Sweet joy befall thee! Pretty joy! Sweet joy, but two days old. Sweet joy I call thee: Thou dost smile, I sing the while; Sweet joy befall thee! William Blake, Songs of Innocence (1789)

The Lamb Little lamb, who made thee? Does thou know who made thee, Gave thee life, and bid thee feed By the stream and o'er the mead; Gave thee clothing of delight, Softest clothing, woolly, bright; Gave thee such a tender voice, Making all the vales rejoice? Little lamb, who made thee? Does thou know who made thee? Little lamb, I'll tell thee; Little lamb, I'll tell thee: He is called by thy name, For He calls Himself a Lamb. He is meek, and He is mild, He became a little child. I a child, and thou a lamb, We are called by His name. Little lamb, God bless thee! Little lamb, God bless thee! William Blake, Songs of Innocence (1789)

The Sick Rose O rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm, That flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy. William Blake, Songs of Experience (1794)

The Tyger (William Blake, 1794)

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare sieze the fire?

And what shoulder, & what art

Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat,

What dread hand? & what dread feet?

What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain?

What the anvil? what dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,

And watered heaven with their tears, Did he smile his work to see?

Did he who made the Lamb make thee?

Tyger! Tyger! burning bright In the forests of the night,

What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

From Biographia Literaria. Chapter XIV Occasion of the Lyrical Ballads, and the objects originally proposed. During the first year that Mr. Wordsworth and I were neighbours, our conversations turned frequently on the two cardinal points of poetry, the power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a faithful adherence to the truth of nature, and the power of giving the interest of novelty by the modifying colours of imagination. The sudden charm, which accidents of light and shade, which moon-light or sunset diffused over a known and familiar landscape, appeared to represent the practicability of combining both. These are the poetry of nature. The thought suggested itself—(to which of us I do not recollect)—that a series of poems might be composed of two sorts. In the one, the incidents and agents were to be, in part at least, supernatural; and the excellence aimed at was to consist in the interesting of the affections by the dramatic truth of such emotions, as would naturally accompany such situations, supposing them real. And real in this sense they have been to every human being who, from whatever source of delusion, has at any time believed himself under supernatural agency. For the second class, subjects were to be chosen from ordinary life; the characters and incidents were to be such as will be found in every village and its vicinity, where there is a meditative and feeling mind to seek after them, or to notice them, when they present themselves.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1817!

Frost at Midnight The Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits Abstruser musings: save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood, With all the numberless goings-on of life, Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not; Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, Making it a companionable form, Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit By its own moods interprets, every where Echo or mirror seeking of itself, And makes a toy of Thought. But O! how oft, How oft, at school, with most believing mind, Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear Most like articulate sounds of things to come! So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt, Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams! And so I brooded all the following morn, Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye Fixed with mock study on my swimming book: Save if the door half opened, and I snatched A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, For still I hoped to see the stranger's face, Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, My play-mate when we both were clothed alike! Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, Fill up the intersperséd vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought! My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, And think that thou shalt learn far other lore,

And in far other scenes! For I was reared In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible Of that eternal language, which thy God Utters, who from eternity doth teach Himself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal Teacher! he shall mould Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, Whether the summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall Heard only in the trances of the blast, Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1798)

Kubla Khan, or A Vision in a Dream In the summer of the year 1797, the Author, then in ill health, had retired to a lonely farm house between Porlock and Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been prescribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep in his chair at the moment that he was reading the following sentence, or words of the same substance, in 'Purchas's Pilgrimage:' 'Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately garden thereunto: and thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed with a wall.'

The Author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time he has the most vivid confidence, that he could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines; if that indeed can be called composition in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort. On awakening he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone had been cast, but, alas! without the after restoration of the latter:

Then all the charm Is broken—all that phantom-world so fair Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile, Poor youth! who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes-- The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon The visions will return! And lo! he stays, And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms Come trembling back, unite, and now once more The pool becomes a mirror.

Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the Author has frequently purposed to finish for himself what had been originally, as it were, given to him. but the to-morrow is yet to come. As a contrast to this vision, I have annexed a fragment of a very different character, describing with equal fidelity the dream of pain and disease In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,

Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me That with music loud and long I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1797 (1816)

Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in rerum universitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit? Et gradus et cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera? Quid agunt? Quae loca habitant? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, numquara attigit. Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tamquam in Tabulâ, majoris et melioris mundi imaginem contemplari: ne mens assuefacta hodiernae vitae minutiis se contrahat nimis, et tota subsidat in pusillas cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invigilandura est, modusque servandus, ut certa ab incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus. Thomas Burnet, Archaeologiae Philosophicae, London, 1692, p. 68-9. Translation. I can easily believe that there are more invisible than visible beings in the universe. But who will describe to us their relation, their families, degrees, affinities, their differences and their functions? What do they do? Where do they live? The human mind has always looked for, but never attained, a knowledge of these things. I cannot deny, however, that at times it is valuable to allow the mind to contemplate a larger and better world, as if seen in a picture; otherwise, accustomed as the mind is to the small details of a daily routine, it may become limited and concern itself only with insignificant thoughts. But we must ensure that truth and moderation are observed, in order to distinguish certainty from doubt, and day from night.

Some marginal comments in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner The land of ice, and of fearful sounds, where no living thing was to be seen.

And through the drifts the snowy clifts 55 Did send a dismal sheen: Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken— The ice was all between. The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around: 60 It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd, Like noises in a swound!

Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality.

At length did cross an Albatross, Thorough the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, 65 We hail'd it in God's name.

____________________________________________________________________________________ His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mariner for killing the bird of good luck.

And I had done an hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe: For all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, 95 That made the breeze to blow!

But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus make themselves accomplices in the crime.

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, The glorious Sun uprist: Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the bird That brought the fog and mist. 100 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist.

____________________________________________________________________________________ A Spirit had followed them; one of the invisible inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more.

And some in dreams assuréd were Of the Spirit that plagued us so; Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. And every tongue, through utter drought, 135 Was wither'd at the root; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot.

Ode Supposed to be Written on the Marriage of a Friend

Thou magic lyre, whose fascinating sound Seduc'd the savage monsters from their cave,

Drew rocks and trees, and forms uncouth around, And bade wild Hebrus hush his list'ning wave;

No more thy undulating warblings flow O'er Thracian wilds of everlasting snow!

Awake to sweeter sounds, thou magic lyre, And paint a lover's bliss - a lover's pain!

Far nobler triumphs now thy notes inspire, - For see, Euridice attends thy strain;

Her smile, a prize beyond the conjuror's aim - Superior to the cancell'd breath of fame.

(Stanzas 1 & 2; William Cowper, 1731-1800)

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o’er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed–and gazed–but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils.

William Wordsworth, 1804

It is a Beauteous Evening, Calm and Free

It is a beauteous evening, calm and free,

The holy time is quiet as a Nun

Breathless with adoration; the broad sun

Is sinking down in its tranquility;

The gentleness of heaven broods o'er the Sea;

Listen! the mighty Being is awake,

And doth with his eternal motion make

A sound like thunder—everlastingly.

Dear child! dear Girl! that walkest with me here,

If thou appear untouched by solemn thought,

Thy nature is not therefore less divine:

Thou liest in Abraham's bosom all the year;

And worshipp'st at the Temple's inner shrine,

God being with thee when we know it not.

William Wordsworth, 1802 (1807)

From the Preface to “The Lyrical Ballads” (1800)

William Wordsworth (1770-1850)

I am sensible, that there would be something like impropriety in abruptly obtruding upon the Public,

without a few words of introduction, Poems so materially different from those upon which general

approbation is at present bestowed…

The principal object, then, proposed in these Poems was to choose incidents and situations from common

life, and to relate or describe them, throughout, as far as was possible in a selection of language really

used by men, and, at the same time, to throw over them a certain colouring of imagination, whereby

ordinary things should be presented to the mind in an unusual aspect; and, further, and above all, to make

these incidents and situations interesting by tracing in them, truly though not ostentatiously, the primary

laws of our nature: chiefly, as far as regards the manner in which we associate ideas in a state of

excitement. Humble and rustic life was generally chosen, because, in that condition, the essential passions

of the heart find a better soil in which they can attain their maturity, are less under restraint, and speak a

plainer and more emphatic language; because in that condition of life our elementary feelings coexist in a

state of greater simplicity, and, consequently, may be more accurately contemplated, and more forcibly

communicated; because the manners of rural life germinate from those elementary feelings, and, from the

necessary character of rural occupations, are more easily comprehended, and are more durable; and,

lastly, because in that condition the passions of men are incorporated with the beautiful and permanent

forms of nature. The language, too, of these men has been adopted (purified indeed from what appear to

be its real defects, from all lasting and rational causes of dislike or disgust) because such men hourly

communicate with the best objects from which the best part of language is originally derived; and

because, from their rank in society and the sameness and narrow circle of their intercourse, being less

under the influence of social vanity, they convey their feelings and notions in simple and unelaborated

expressions. Accordingly, such a language, arising out of repeated experience and regular feelings, is a

more permanent, and a far more philosophical language, than that which is frequently substituted for it by

Poets, who think that they are conferring honour upon themselves and their art, in proportion as they

separate themselves from the sympathies of men, and indulge in arbitrary and capricious habits of

expression, in order to furnish food for fickle tastes, and fickle appetites, of their own creation…

…For all good poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: and though this be true, Poems to

which any value can be attached were never produced on any variety of subjects but by a man who, being

possessed of more than usual organic sensibility, had also thought long and deeply. For our continued

influxes of feeling are modified and directed by our thoughts, which are indeed the representatives of all

our past feelings; and, as by contemplating the relation of these general representatives to each other, we

discover what is really important to men, so, by the repetition and continuance of this act, our feelings

will be connected with important subjects, till at length, if we be originally possessed of much sensibility,

such habits of mind will be produced, that, by obeying blindly and mechanically the impulses of those

habits, we shall describe objects, and utter sentiments, of such a nature, and in such connexion with each

other, that the understanding of the Reader must necessarily be in some degree enlightened, and his

affections strengthened and purified.

…If in a poem there should be found a series of lines, or even a single line, in which the language,

though naturally arranged, and according to the strict laws of metre, does not differ from that of prose,

there is a numerous class of critics, who, when they stumble upon these prosaisms, as they call them,

imagine that they have made a notable discovery, and exult over the Poet as over a man ignorant of his

own profession. Now these men would establish a canon of criticism which the Reader will conclude he

must utterly reject, if he wishes to be pleased with these volumes. and it would be a most easy task to

prove to him, that not only the language of a large portion of every good poem, even of the most elevated

character, must necessarily, except with reference to the metre, in no respect differ from that of good

prose, but likewise that some of the most interesting parts of the best poems will be found to be strictly

the language of prose when prose is well written. The truth of this assertion might be demonstrated by

innumerable passages from almost all the poetical writings, even of Milton himself. to illustrate the

subject in a general manner, I will here adduce a short composition of Gray, who was at the head of those

who, by their reasonings, have attempted to widen the space of separation betwixt Prose and Metrical

composition, and was more than any other man curiously elaborate in the structure of his own poetic

diction.

In vain to me the smiling mornings shine,

And reddening Phœbus lifts his golden fire:

The birds in vain their amorous descant join,

Or cheerful fields resume their green attire.

These ears, alas! for other notes repine;

A different object do these eyes require;

My lonely anguish melts no heart but mine;

And in my breast the imperfect joys expire;

Yet morning smiles the busy race to cheer,

And new-born pleasure brings to happier men;

The fields to all their wonted tribute bear;

To warm their little loves the birds complain.

I fruitless mourn to him that cannot hear,

And weep the more because I weep in vain.

It will easily be perceived, that the only part of this Sonnet which is of any value is the lines printed in

Italics; it is equally obvious, that, except in the rhyme, and in the use of the single word ’fruitless’ for

fruitlessly, which is so far a defect, the language of these lines does in no respect differ from that of prose.

Long as the Reader has been detained, I hope he will permit me to caution him against a mode of false

criticism which has been applied to Poetry, in which the language closely resembles that of life and

nature. Such verses have been triumphed over in parodies, of which Dr. Johnson’s stanza is a fair

specimen:—

I put my hat upon my head

And walked into the Strand,

And there I met another man

Whose hat was in his hand.

Immediately under these lines let us place one of the most justly admired stanzas of the ‘Babes in the

Wood.’

These pretty Babes with hand in hand

Went wandering up and down;

But never more they saw the Man

Approaching from the town.

In both these stanzas the words, and the order of the words, in no respect differ from the most

unimpassioned conversation. There are words in both, for example, ‘the Strand,’ and ‘the town,’

connected with none but the most familiar ideas; yet the one stanza we admit as admirable, and the other

as a fair example of the superlatively contemptible. Whence arises this difference? Not from the metre,

not from the language, not from the order of the words; but the matter expressed in Dr. Johnson’s stanza

is contemptible. The proper method of treating trivial and simple verses, to which Dr. Johnson’s stanza

would be a fair parallelism, is not to say, this is a bad kind of poetry, or, this is not poetry; but, this wants

sense; it is neither interesting in itself nor can lead to anything interesting; the images neither originate in

that sane state of feeling which arises out of thought, nor can excite thought or feeling in the Reader. This

is the only sensible manner of dealing with such verses. Why trouble yourself about the species till you

have previously decided upon the genus? Why take pains to prove that an ape is not a Newton, when it is

self-evident that he is not a man?

RESOLUTION AND INDEPENDENCE I THERE was a roaring in the wind all night; The rain came heavily and fell in floods; But now the sun is rising calm and bright; The birds are singing in the distant woods; Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods; The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters; And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters. II All things that love the sun are out of doors; The sky rejoices in the morning's birth; The grass is bright with rain-drops;--on the moors The hare is running races in her mirth; And with her feet she from the plashy earth Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun, Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run. III I was a Traveller then upon the moor, I saw the hare that raced about with joy; I heard the woods and distant waters roar; Or heard them not, as happy as a boy: The pleasant season did my heart employ: My old remembrances went from me wholly; And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy. IV But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might Of joy in minds that can no further go, As high as we have mounted in delight In our dejection do we sink as low; To me that morning did it happen so; And fears and fancies thick upon me came; Dim sadness--and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name. V I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky; And I bethought me of the playful hare: Even such a happy Child of earth am I; Even as these blissful creatures do I fare; Far from the world I walk, and from all care; But there may come another day to me-- Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty. VI My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, As if life's business were a summer mood; As if all needful things would come unsought To genial faith, still rich in genial good; But how can He expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

VII I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy, The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride; Of Him who walked in glory and in joy Following his plough, along the mountain-side: By our own spirits are we deified: We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness. VIII Now, whether it were by peculiar grace, A leading from above, a something given, Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place, When I with these untoward thoughts had striven, Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven I saw a Man before me unawares: The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs. IX As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie Couched on the bald top of an eminence; Wonder to all who do the same espy, By what means it could thither come, and whence; So that it seems a thing endued with sense: Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself; X Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead, Nor all asleep--in his extreme old age: His body was bent double, feet and head Coming together in life's pilgrimage; As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage Of sickness felt by him in times long past, A more than human weight upon his frame had cast. XI Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face, Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood: And, still as I drew near with gentle pace, Upon the margin of that moorish flood Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood, That heareth not the loud winds when they call And moveth all together, if it move at all. XII At length, himself unsettling, he the pond Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look Upon the muddy water, which he conned, As if he had been reading in a book: And now a stranger's privilege I took; And, drawing to his side, to him did say, “This morning gives us promise of a glorious day.”

XIII A gentle answer did the old Man make, In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew: And him with further words I thus bespake, “What occupation do you there pursue? This is a lonesome place for one like you.” Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes, XIV His words came feebly, from a feeble chest, But each in solemn order followed each, With something of a lofty utterance drest-- Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach Of ordinary men; a stately speech; Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use, Religious men, who give to God and man their dues. XV He told, that to these waters he had come To gather leeches, being old and poor: Employment hazardous and wearisome! And he had many hardships to endure: From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor; Housing, with God's good help, by choice or chance, And in this way he gained an honest maintenance. XVI The old Man still stood talking by my side; But now his voice to me was like a stream Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide; And the whole body of the Man did seem Like one whom I had met with in a dream; Or like a man from some far region sent, To give me human strength, by apt admonishment. XVII My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills; And hope that is unwilling to be fed; Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills; And mighty Poets in their misery dead. --Perplexed, and longing to be comforted, My question eagerly did I renew, “How is it that you live, and what is it you do?” XVIII He with a smile did then his words repeat; And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide He travelled; stirring thus about his feet The waters of the pools where they abide. “Once I could meet with them on every side; But they have dwindled long by slow decay; Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may.”

XIX While he was talking thus, the lonely place, The old Man's shape, and speech--all troubled me: In my mind's eye I seemed to see him pace About the weary moors continually, Wandering about alone and silently. While I these thoughts within myself pursued, He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed. XX And soon with this he other matter blended, Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind, But stately in the main; and when he ended, I could have laughed myself to scorn to find In that decrepit Man so firm a mind. “God,” said I, “be my help and stay secure; I'll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!”

William Wordsworth, 1800/1802 (1807)

She Dwelt Among the Untrodden Ways She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A Maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love: A violet by a mossy stone Half hidden from the eye! –Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; But she is in her grave, and, oh, The difference to me!

William Wordsworth, 1799

To a Butterfly STAY near me–do not take thy flight! A little longer stay in sight! Much converse do I find in thee, Historian of my infancy! Float near me; do not yet depart! Dead times revive in thee: Thou bring’st, gay creature as thou art! A solemn image to my heart, My father’s family! Oh! pleasant, pleasant were the days, The time, when, in our childish plays, My sister Emmeline and I Together chased the butterfly! A very hunter did I rush Upon the prey:–with leaps and springs I followed on from brake to bush; But she, God love her, feared to brush The dust from off its wings.

William Wordsworth, 1801

To the Cuckoo O BLITHE New-comer! I have heard, I hear thee and rejoice. O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice? While I am lying on the grass Thy twofold shout I hear, From hill to hill it seems to pass, At once far off, and near. Though babbling only to the Vale, Of sunshine and of flowers, Thou bringest unto me a tale Of visionary hours. Thrice welcome, darling of the Spring! Even yet thou art to me No bird, but an invisible thing, A voice, a mystery; The same whom in my school-boy days I listened to; that Cry Which made me look a thousand ways In bush, and tree, and sky. To seek thee did I often rove Through woods and on the green; And thou wert still a hope, a love; Still longed for, never seen. And I can listen to thee yet; Can lie upon the plain And listen, till I do beget That golden time again. O blessed Bird! the earth we pace Again appears to be An unsubstantial, faery place; That is fit home for Thee!

William Wordsworth, 1804

We Are Seven ———A simple Child, That lightly draws its breath, And feels its life in every limb, What should it know of death? I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic, woodland air, And she was wildly clad: Her eyes were fair, and very fair; —Her beauty made me glad. “Sisters and brothers, little Maid, How many may you be?” “How many? Seven in all,” she said, And wondering looked at me. “And where are they? I pray you tell.” She answered, “Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea. “Two of us in the church-yard lie, My sister and my brother; And, in the church-yard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother.” “You say that two at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, Sweet Maid, how this may be.” Then did the little Maid reply, “Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the church-yard lie, Beneath the church-yard tree.” “You run about, my little Maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the church-yard laid, Then ye are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,” The little Maid replied, “Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door, And they are side by side. “My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit, And sing a song to them. “And often after sun-set, Sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer, And eat my supper there. “The first that dies was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. “So in the church-yard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and I. “And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side.” “How many are you, then,” said I, “If they two are in heaven?” Quick was the little Maid’s reply, “O Master! we are seven.” “But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!” ’Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

William Wordsworth, 1798

To the Hon. Augusta Byron.

Harrow, Saturday, 11th Novr, 1804.

I thought, my dear Augusta, [1] that your opinion of my meek mamma would coincide with mine; Her temper is so variable, and, when inflamed, so furious, that I dread our meeting; not but I dare say, that I am troublesome enough, but I always endeavour to be as dutiful as possible. She is so very strenuous, and so tormenting in her entreaties and commands, with regard to my reconciliation, with that detestable Lord G. [2] that I suppose she has a penchant for his Lordship; but I am confident that he does not return it, for he rather dislikes her than otherwise, at least as far as I can judge. But she has an excellent opinion of her personal attractions, sinks her age a good six years, avers that when I was born she was only eighteen, when you, my dear Sister, know as well as I know that she was of age when she married my father, and that I was not born for three years afterwards. But vanity is the weakness of your sex,—and these are mere foibles that I have related to you, and, provided she never molested me, I should look upon them as follies very excusable in a woman.

But I am now coming to what must shock you, as much as it does me, when she has occasion to lecture me (not very seldom you will think no doubt) she does not do it in a manner that commands respect, and in an impressive style. No! did she do that, I should amend my faults with pleasure, and dread to offend a kind though just mother. But she flies into a fit of phrenzy, upbraids me as if I was the most undutiful wretch in existence, rakes up the ashes of my father, abuses him, says I shall be a true Byrrone, which is the worst epithet she can invent. Am I to call this woman mother? Because by nature's law she has authority over me, am I to be trampled upon in this manner? am I to be goaded with insult, loaded with obloquy, and suffer my feelings to be outraged on the most trivial occasions? I owe her respect as a Son, But I renounce her as a Friend. What an example does she shew me! I hope in God I shall never follow it. I have not told you all, nor can I; I respect you as a female, nor, although I ought to confide in you as a Sister, will I shock you with the repetition of Scenes, which you may judge of by the Sample I have given you, and which to all but you are buried in oblivion. Would they were so in my mind! I am afraid they never will. And can I, my dear Sister, look up to this mother, with that respect, that affection I ought? Am I to be eternally subjected to her caprice? I hope not—; indeed a few short years will emancipate me from the Shackles I now wear, and then perhaps she will govern her passion better than at present.

You mistake me, if you think I dislike Lord Carlisle; I respect him, and might like him did I know him better. For him too my mother has an antipathy, why I know not. I am afraid he could be but of little use to me, in separating me from her, which she would oppose with all her might; but I dare say he would assist me if he could, so I take the will for the Deed, and am obliged to him in exactly the same manner as if he succeeded in his efforts.

I am in great hopes, that at Christmas I shall be with Mr. Hanson during the vacation, I shall do all I can to avoid a visit to my mother wherever she is. It is the first duty of a parent, to impress precepts of obedience in their children, but her method is so violent, so capricious, that the patience of Job, the versatility of a member of the House of Commons could not support it. I revere Dr. Drury much more than I do her, yet he is never violent, never outrageous: I dread offending him, not however through fear, but the respect I bear him makes me unhappy when I am under his displeasure. My mother's precepts, never convey instruction, never fix upon my mind; to be sure they are calculated, to inculcate obedience, so are chains, and tortures, but though they may restrain for a time, the mind revolts from such treatment. Not that Mrs. Byron ever injures my sacred person. I am rather too old for that, but her words are of that rough texture, which offend more than personal ill usage. "A talkative woman is like an Adder's tongue," so says one of the prophets, but which I can't tell, and very likely you don't wish to know, but he was a true one whoever he was.

The postage of your letters, My dear Augusta, don't fall upon me; but if they did, it would make no difference, for I am Generally in cash, and should think the trifle I paid for your epistles the best laid out I ever spent in my life. Write Soon. Remember me to Lord Carlisle, and, believe me, I ever am

Your affectionate Brother and Friend,

BYRONE.!

To the Hon. Augusta Byron. 6, Chancery Lane, Wednesday, 30th Jany., 1805. I have delayed writing to you so long, My dearest Augusta, from ignorance of your residence, not knowing whether you graced Castle Howard, or Kireton with your presence. The instant Mr. H[anson] informed me where you was, I prepared to address you, and you have but just forestalled my intention. And now, I scarcely know what to begin with; I have so many things, to tell you. I wish to God, that we were together, for It is impossible that I can confine all I have got to say in an epistle, without I was to follow your example, and fill eleven pages, as I was informed, by my proficiency in the art of magic, that you sometimes send that number to Lady Gertrude. To begin with an article of grand importance; I on Saturday dined with Lord Carlisle, and on further acquaintance I like them all very much. Amongst other circumstances, I heard of your boldness as a Rider, especially one anecdote about your horse carrying you into the stable perforce. I should have admired amazingly to have seen your progress, provided you met with no accident. I hope you recollect the circumstance, and know what I allude to; else, you may think that I am soaring into the Regions of Romance. I wish you to corroborate my account in your next, and inform me whether my information was correct. I think your friend Lady G. is a sweet girl. If your taste in love, is as good as it is in friendship, I shall think you a very discerning little Gentlewoman. His Lordship too improves upon further acquaintance, Her Ladyship I always liked, but of the Junior part of the family Frederick [1] is my favourite. I believe with regard to my future destination, that I return to Harrow until June, and then I'm off for the university. Could I have found Room there, I was to have gone immediately. I have contrived to pass the holidays with Mr. and Mrs. Hanson, to whom I am greatly obliged for their hospitality. You are now within a days journey of my amiable Mama. If you wish your spirits raised, or rather roused, I would recommend you to pass a week or two with her. However I daresay she would behave very well to you, for you do not know her disposition so well as I do. I return you, my dear Girl, a thousand thanks for hinting to Mr. H. and Lord C. my uncomfortable situation, I shall always remember it with gratitude, as a most essential service. I rather think that, if you were any time with my mother, she would bore you about your marriage which she disapproves of, as much for the sake of finding fault as any thing, for that is her favourite amusement. At any rate she would be very inquisitive, for she was always tormenting me about it, and, if you told her any thing, she might very possibly divulge it; I therefore advise you, when you see her to say nothing, or as little, about it, as you can help. If you make haste, you can answer this well written epistle by return of post, for I wish again to hear from you immediately; you need not fill eleven pages, nine will be sufficient; but whether it contains nine pages or nine lines, it will always be most welcome, my beloved Sister, to Your affectionate Brother and Friend, BYRON.!

To the Hon. Augusta Byron. [The Earl of Carlisle's, Grosvenor Place, London.] Burgage Manor, Southwell, Friday, April 25th, 1805. My dearest Augusta,—Thank God, I believe I shall be in town on Wednesday next, and at last relieved from those agreeable amusements, I described to you in my last. I return you and Lady G. many thanks for your benediction, nor do I doubt its efficacy as it is bestowed by two such Angelic beings; but as I am afraid my profane blessing would but expedite your road to Purgatory, instead of Salvation, you must be content with my best wishes in return, since the unhallowed adjurations of a mere mortal would be of no effect. You say, you are sick of the Installation; [1] and that L'd C. was not present; I however saw his name in the Morning Post, as one of the Knights Companions. I indeed expected that you would have been present at the Ceremony. I have seen this young Roscius [2] several times at the hazard of my life, from the affectionate squeezes of the surrounding crowd. I think him tolerable in some characters, but by no means equal to the ridiculous praises showered upon him by John Bull. I am afraid that my stay in town ceases after the 10th. I should not continue it so long, as we meet on the 8th at Harrow, But, I remain on purpose to hear our Sapient and noble Legislators of Both Houses debate on the Catholic Question, [3] as I have no doubt there will be many nonsensical, and some Clever things said on the occasion. I am extremely glad that you sport an audience Chamber for the Benefit of your modest visitors, amongst whom I have the honour to reckon myself: I shall certainly be most happy again to see you, notwithstanding my wise and Good mother (who is at this minute thundering against Somebody or other below in the Dining Room), has interdicted my visiting at his Lordship's house, with the threat of her malediction, in case of disobedience, as she says he has behaved very ill to her; the truth of this I much doubt, nor should the orders of all the mothers (especially such mothers) in the world, prevent me from seeing my Beloved Sister after so long an Absence. I beg you will forgive this well written epistle, for I write in a great Hurry, and, believe me, with the greatest impatience again to behold you, your Attached Brother and Friend, BYRON.!

Maid of Athens Maid of Athens, ere we part, Give, oh give me back my heart! Or, since that has left my breast, Keep it now, and take the rest! Hear my vow before I go, Ζωή µου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ. By those tresses unconfined, Woo'd by each Ægean wind; By those lids whose jetty fringe Kiss thy soft cheeks' blooming tinge; By those wild eyes like the roe, Ζωή µου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ. By that lip I long to taste; By that zone-encircled waist; By all the token-flowers that tell What words can never speak so well; By love's alternate joy and woe, Ζωή µου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ. Maid of Athens! I am gone: Think of me, sweet! when alone. Though I fly to Istambol, Athens holds my heart and soul: Can I cease to love thee? No! Ζωή µου, σᾶς ἀγαπῶ.

Lord Byron, 1810

__________________________________________________ In a letter to H. Drury, May 3rd, 1810, Byron wrote:

. . . . I almost forgot to tell you that I am dying for love of three Greek Girls at Athens, sisters, two of whom have promised to accompany me to England, I lived in the same house, Teresa, Mariana, and Kattinka, are the names of these divinities all of them under 15 . . . .

My Soul is Dark My soul is dark - Oh! quickly string The harp I yet can brook to hear; And let thy gentle fingers fling Its melting murmurs o'er mine ear. If in this heart a hope be dear, That sound shall charm it forth again: If in these eyes there lurk a tear, 'Twill flow, and cease to burn my brain. But bid the strain be wild and deep, Nor let thy notes of joy be first: I tell thee, minstrel, I must weep, Or else this heavy heart will burst; For it hath been by sorrow nursed, And ached in sleepless silence, long; And now 'tis doomed to know the worst, And break at once - or yield to song.

Lord Byron, 1815

On This Day I Complete My Thirty-Sixth Year 'Tis time this heart should be unmoved, Since others it hath ceased to move: Yet, though I cannot be beloved, Still let me love! My days are in the yellow leaf; The flowers and fruits of love are gone; The worm, the canker, and the grief, Are mine alone! The fire that on my bosom preys Is lone as some volcanic isle; No torch is kindled at its blaze - A funeral pile! The hope, the fear, the jealous care, The exalted portion of the pain And power of love, I cannot share, But wear the chain. But 'tis not thus -and 'tis not here - Such thoughts should shake my soul, nor now, Where glory decks the hero's bier, Or binds his brow.

The sword, the banner, and the field, Glory and Greece, around me see! The Spartan, borne upon his shield, Was not more free. Awake! (not Greece -she is awake!) Awake, my spirit! Think through whom Thy life-blood tracks its parent lake, And then strike home! Tread those reviving passions down, Unworthy manhood! -unto thee Indifferent should the smile or frown Of beauty be. If thou regret'st thy youth, why live? The land of honourable death Is here: -up to the field, and give Away thy breath! Seek out -less often sought than found - A soldier's grave, for thee the best; Then look around, and choose thy ground, And take thy rest. Lord Byron, Missolonghi, Jan. 22, 1824

She Walks in Beauty She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes: Thus mellowed to that tender light Which heaven to gaudy day denies. One shade the more, one ray the less, Had half impaired the nameless grace Which waves in every raven tress, Or softly lightens o'er her face; Where thoughts serenely sweet express How pure, how dear their dwelling-place. And on that cheek, and o'er that brow, So soft, so calm, yet eloquent, The smiles that win, the tints that glow, But tell of days in goodness spent, A mind at peace with all below, A heart whose love is innocent!

George Gordon Byron, 1814!

So, We'll Go No More a Roving So, we'll go no more a roving So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a roving By the light of the moon.

Lord Byron, included in a letter to Thomas Moore on 28 February, 1817

When We Two Parted When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame; I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell. In secret we met In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears.

Lord Byron, 1817

!

England in 1819 An old, mad, blind, despised, and dying king, -

Princes, the dregs of their dull race, who flow

Through public scorn, -mud from a muddy spring, -

Rulers who neither see, nor feel, nor know,

But leech-like to their fainting country cling,

Till they drop, blind in blood, without a blow, -

A people starved and stabbed in the untilled field, -

An army, which liberticide and prey

Makes as a two-edged sword to all who wield, -

Golden and sanguine laws which tempt and slay;

Religion Christless, Godless -a book sealed;

A Senate, -Time's worst statute unrepealed, -

Are graves from which a glorious Phantom may

Burst, to illumine our tempestuous day.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1819!

From A Defence of Poetry. Poetry, in a general sense, may be defined to be “the expression of the imagination”: and poetry is connate with the origin of man. Man is an instrument over which a series of external and internal impressions are driven, like the alternations of an ever-changing wind over an Æolian lyre, which move it by their motion to ever-changing melody. But there is a principle within the human being, and perhaps within all sentient beings, which acts otherwise than in the lyre, and produces not melody alone, but harmony, by an internal adjustment of the sounds or motions thus excited to the impressions which excite them. It is as if the lyre could accommodate its chords to the motions of that which strikes them, in a determined proportion of sound; even as the musician can accommodate his voice to the sound of the lyre. A child at play by itself will express its delight by its voice and motions; and every inflexion of tone and every gesture will bear exact relation to a corresponding antitype in the pleasurable impressions which awakened it; it will be the reflected image of that impression; and as the lyre trembles and sounds after the wind has died away; so the child seeks, by prolonging in its voice and motions the duration of the effect, to prolong also a consciousness of the cause. In relation to the objects which delight a child these expressions are what poetry is to higher objects.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1821!

From%A"Defence"of"Poetry%!!"…It! is! impossible!to!read!the!compositions!of! the!most!celebrated!writers!of! the!present!day!without!being!startled!with!the!electric! life!which!burns!within!their!words.! They!measure! the! circumference! and! sound! the! depths! of! human!nature!with!a!comprehensive!and!all<penetrating!spirit,!and!they!are!themselves!perhaps!the!most! sincerely!astonished!at! its!manifestations;! for! it! is! less! their! spirit! than!the!spirit!of! the!age.!Poets!are! the!hierophants!of!an!unapprehended! inspiration;!the! mirrors! of! the! gigantic! shadows! which! futurity! casts! upon! the! present;! the!words!which!express!what!they!understand!not;!the!trumpets!which!sing!to!battle,!and!feel!not!what!they!inspire;!the!influence!which!is!moved!not,!but!moves.!Poets!are!the!unacknowledged!legislators!of!the!world”.!!

%Percy%Bysshe%Shelley%(1821)%

From Ode to the West Wind !!I

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, Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave,until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill (Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill: Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere; Destroyer and Preserver; hear, O hear

V

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth! And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened Earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?

!

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1821)

Ozymandias I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: "Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.

And on the pedestal these words appear:

“My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:

Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!”

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,

The lone and level sands stretch far away".

Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1818!

Percy Shelly and Nightmares

Percy Shelley could not swim, and even though he had recently been involved in a

boating accident in a canal one night in which he was nearly drowned, he and

several friends decided to spend the summer of 1822 sailing on the Bay of Lerici. A

boat was ordered and built for this purpose -- named Don Juan by Byron, but

renamed Ariel by Shelley. Meanwhile, the pregnant Mary, who was expecting in

December, suffered another miscarriage in June. Shelley himself suffered from

disturbing recurring nightmares and hallucinations during the summer. One vision

was of a naked child rising out of the sea and clapping its hands; another was an

encounter with his own doppelganger on the terrace, who then asked him "How

long do you mean to be content?"; and the most terrifying was of his good friends

Jane and Edward Williams coming into his room one night, bloody and mangled,

to tell him that the house was falling down -- and when he rushed to Mary's room

to warn her, he found himself strangling her. Shelley wrote to a friend and asked

him to send a lethal dose of prussic acid, not to use immediately, but as comfort to

hold "that golden key to the chamber of perpetual rest."

On July 7, after a long trip of sailing out to visit several different friends, a sudden

afternoon storm sunk the Ariel ten miles from any land. The bodies of Shelley,

Williams and the boat's sailor washed up ten days later and were treated and

cremated on the beach because of quarantine laws to protect against the plague.

Shelley's ashes were buried in the Protestant cemetery at Rome. His heart was first

given to a friend, then to Mary, and eventually buried in Bournemouth. Shelley's

final, unfinished poem was, perhaps ironically, titled The Triumph of Life.

From http://www.neuroticpoets.com/shelley

Percy Shelly and Ordinary Life

The poet Shelley was not one who would have worried about food. “He took no thought,” says a biographer, “of sublunary matters”:

Dinner seems to have come less by forethought than by the operation of divine chance; and when there was no meat provided for the entertainment of casual guests the table was supplied with buns, procured by Shelley from the nearest pastry-cook. He had already abjured animal food and alcohol; and his favourite diet consisted of pulse or bread, which he ate dry with water, or made into panade.

Hogg relates how, when he was walking in the streets and felt hungry, he would dive into a baker’s shop and emerge with a loaf tucked under his arm. This he consumed as he went along, very often reading at the same time. He could not comprehend how any man should want more than bread.

During the last years of his life Shelley took no heed of food. Mrs. Shelley used to send him something to eat into the room where he habitually studied, but the plate frequently remained untouched for hours upon a bookshelf, and at the end of the day he might be heard asking, “Mary, have I dined?”

Thomas Jefferson Hogg, a close friend of Percy Bysshe Shelley, wrote The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley, an unfinished biography which was poorly received when the first two volumes were published in 1858.

From The Guardian, 7 April 1941

To the Moon

Art thou pale for weariness

Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,

Wandering companionless

Among the stars that have a different birth, -

And ever changing, like a joyless eye

That finds no object worth its constancy?

Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1824/39 (Posthumously)!

To Wordsworth

Poet of Nature, thou hast wept to know

That things depart which never may return:

Childhood and youth, friendship, and love's first glow,

Have fled like sweet dreams, leaving thee to mourn.

These common woes I feel. One loss is mine

Which thou too feel'st, yet I alone deplore.

Thou wert as a lone star whose light did shine

On some frail bark in winter's midnight roar:

Thou hast like to a rock-built refuge stood

Above the blind and battling multitude:

In honoured poverty thy voice did weave

Songs consecrate to truth and liberty.

Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve,

Thus having been, that thou shouldst cease to be.

Percy Bysshe Shelley, 1813!

From Letter to Richard Woodhouse. My dear Woodhouse, Your Letter gave me a great satisfaction; more on account of its friendliness, than any relish of that matter in it which is accounted so acceptable in the 'genus irritabile'. The best answer I can give you is in a clerk-like manner to make some observations on two principle points, which seem to point like indices into the midst of the whole pro and con, about genius, and views and achievements and ambition and cetera. 1st. As to the poetical Character itself (I mean that sort of which, if I am any thing, I am a Member; that sort distinguished from the wordsworthian or egotistical sublime; which is a thing per se and stands alone) it is not itself - it has no self - it is every thing and nothing - It has no character - it enjoys light and shade; it lives in gusto, be it foul or fair, high or low, rich or poor, mean or elevated - It has as much delight in conceiving an Iago as an Imogen. What shocks the virtuous philosopher, delights the camelion Poet. It does no harm from its relish of the dark side of things any more than from its taste for the bright one; because they both end in speculation. A Poet is the most unpoetical of any thing in existence; because he has no Identity - he is continually in for - and filling some other Body - The Sun, the Moon, the Sea and Men and Women who are creatures of impulse are poetical and have about them an unchangeable attribute - the poet has none; no identity - he is certainly the most unpoetical of all God's Creatures. If then he has no self, and if I am a Poet, where is the Wonder that I should say I would write no more?

John Keats, 27 October 1818

!

La Belle Dame Sans Merci O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge has withered from the lake, And no birds sing. O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms, So haggard and so woe-begone? The squirrel’s granary is full, And the harvest’s done. I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever-dew, And on thy cheeks a fading rose Fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful—a faery’s child, Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone; She looked at me as she did love, And made sweet moan I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long, For sidelong would she bend, and sing A faery’s song.

She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna-dew, And sure in language strange she said— ‘I love thee true’. She took me to her Elfin grot, And there she wept and sighed full sore, And there I shut her wild wild eyes With kisses four. And there she lullèd me asleep, And there I dreamed—Ah! woe betide!— The latest dream I ever dreamt On the cold hill side. I saw pale kings and princes too, Pale warriors, death-pale were they all; They cried—‘La Belle Dame sans Merci Hath thee in thrall!’ I saw their starved lips in the gloam, With horrid warning gapèd wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill’s side. And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is withered from the lake, And no birds sing.

John Keats, 1819 !

Ode$on$a$Grecian$Urn$!!Thou!still!unravish’d!bride!of!quietness,!Thou!foster5child!of!silence!and!slow!time,!Sylvan!historian,!who!canst!thus!express!A!flowery!tale!more!sweetly!than!our!rhyme:!What!leaf5fring’d!legend!haunts!about!thy!shape!Of!deities!or!mortals,!or!of!both,!In!Tempe!or!the!dales!of!Arcady?!What!men!or!gods!are!these?!What!maidens!loth?!What!mad!pursuit?!What!struggle!to!escape?!What!pipes!and!timbrels?!What!wild!ecstasy?!!Heard!melodies!are!sweet,!but!those!unheard!Are!sweeter;!therefore,!ye!soft!pipes,!play!on;!Not!to!the!sensual!ear,!but,!more!endear’d,!Pipe!to!the!spirit!ditties!of!no!tone:!Fair!youth,!beneath!the!trees,!thou!canst!not!leave!Thy!song,!nor!ever!can!those!trees!be!bare;!Bold!Lover,!never,!never!canst!thou!kiss,!Though!winning!near!the!goal!yet,!do!not!grieve;!She!cannot!fade,!though!thou!hast!not!thy!bliss,!For!ever!wilt!thou!love,!and!she!be!fair!!!Ah,!happy,!happy!boughs!!that!cannot!shed!Your!leaves,!nor!ever!bid!the!Spring!adieu;!And,!happy!melodist,!unwearied,!For!ever!piping!songs!for!ever!new;!More!happy!love!!more!happy,!happy!love!!For!ever!warm!and!still!to!be!enjoy’d,!!

!For!ever!panting,!and!for!ever!young;!All!breathing!human!passion!far!above,!That!leaves!a!heart!high5sorrowful!and!cloy’d,!A!burning!forehead,!and!a!parching!tongue.!!Who!are!these!coming!to!the!sacrifice?!To!what!green!altar,!O!mysterious!priest,!Lead’st!thou!that!heifer!lowing!at!the!skies,!And!all!her!silken!flanks!with!garlands!drest?!What!little!town!by!river!or!sea!shore,!Or!mountain5built!with!peaceful!citadel,!Is!emptied!of!this!folk,!this!pious!morn?!And,!little!town,!thy!streets!for!evermore!Will!silent!be;!and!not!a!soul!to!tell!Why!thou!art!desolate,!can!e’er!return.!!O!Attic!shape!!Fair!attitude!!with!brede!Of!marble!men!and!maidens!overwrought,!With!forest!branches!and!the!trodden!weed;!Thou,!silent!form,!dost!tease!us!out!of!thought!As!doth!eternity:!Cold!Pastoral!!When!old!age!shall!this!generation!waste,!Thou!shalt!remain,!in!midst!of!other!woe!Than!ours,!a!friend!to!man,!to!whom!thou!say’st,!“Beauty!is!truth,!truth!beauty,—that!is!all!Ye!know!on!earth,!and!all!ye!need!to!know.”!!

$John$Keats,$May$1819$[Jan,$1820]$

!

On First Looking into Chapman's Homer

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He star'd at the Pacific--and all his men Look'd at each other with a wild surmise Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

John Keats, October 1816!

To#Autumn#!Season!of!mists!and!mellow!fruitfulness,!Close!bosom4friend!of!the!maturing!sun;!Conspiring!with!him!how!to!load!and!bless!With!fruit!the!vines!that!round!the!thatch4eves!run;!To!bend!with!apples!the!moss'd!cottage4trees,!And!fill!all!fruit!with!ripeness!to!the!core;!To!swell!the!gourd,!and!plump!the!hazel!shells!With!a!sweet!kernel;!to!set!budding!more,!And!still!more,!later!flowers!for!the!bees,!Until!they!think!warm!days!will!never!cease,!For!summer!has!o'er4brimm'd!their!clammy!cells.!!Who!hath!not!seen!thee!oft!amid!thy!store?!Sometimes!whoever!seeks!abroad!may!find!Thee!sitting!careless!on!a!granary!floor,!Thy!hair!soft4lifted!by!the!winnowing!wind;!Or!on!a!half4reap'd!furrow!sound!asleep,!Drows'd!with!the!fume!of!poppies,!while!thy!hook!Spares!the!next!swath!and!all!its!twined!flowers:!And!sometimes!like!a!gleaner!thou!dost!keep!Steady!thy!laden!head!across!a!brook;!Or!by!a!cyder4press,!with!patient!look,!Thou!watchest!the!last!oozings!hours!by!hours.!!Where!are!the!songs!of!spring?!Ay,!Where!are!they?!Think!not!of!them,!thou!hast!thy!music!too,—!While!barred!clouds!bloom!the!soft4dying!day,!And!touch!the!stubble4plains!with!rosy!hue;!Then!in!a!wailful!choir!the!small!gnats!mourn!Among!the!river!sallows,!borne!aloft!Or!sinking!as!the!light!wind!lives!or!dies;!And!full4grown!lambs!loud!bleat!from!hilly!bourn;!Hedge4crickets!sing;!and!now!with!treble!soft!The!red4breast!whistles!from!a!garden4croft;!And!gathering!swallows!twitter!in!the!skies.!!

#John#Keats,#September#19,#1819#[1820]#

When I Have Fears When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain, Before high-piled books, in charactery, Hold like rich garners the full ripen'd grain; When I behold, upon the night's starr'd face, Huge cloudy symbols of a high romance, And think that I may never live to trace Their shadows, with the magic hand of chance; And when I feel, fair creature of an hour, That I shall never look upon thee more, Never have relish in the faery power Of unreflecting love;--then on the shore Of the wide world I stand alone, and think Till love and fame to nothingness do sink.

John Keats, 1818 [1848]!