Read The Complete Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley Page 42


  To the unpavilioned sky!

  Ione. Even whilst we speak

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  New notes arise. What is that awful sound?

  Panthea. ’Tis the deep music of the rolling world

  Kindling within the strings of the waved air

  Æolian modulation.

  Ione. Listen too,

  How every pause is filled with under-notes,

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  Clear, silver, icy, keen, awakening tones,

  Which pierce the sense, and live within the soul,

  As the sharp stars pierce winter’s crystal air

  And gaze upon themselves within the sea.

  Panthea. But see where through two openings in the forest

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  Which hanging branches overcanopy,

  And where two runnels of a rivulet,

  Between the close moss violet-inwoven,

  Have made their path of melody, like sisters

  Who part with sighs that they may meet in smiles,

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  Turning their dear disunion to an isle

  Of lovely grief, a wood of sweet sad thoughts;

  Two visions of strange radiance float upon

  The ocean-like enchantment of strong sound,

  Which flows intenser, keener, deeper yet

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  Under the ground and through the windless air.

  Ione. I see a chariot like that thinnest boat,

  In which the Mother of the Months is borne

  By ebbing light into her western cave.

  When she upsprings from interlunar dreams;

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  O’er which is curved an orblike canopy

  Of gentle darkness, and the hills and woods,

  Distinctly seen through that dusk aëry veil,

  Regard like shapes in an enchanter’s glass;

  Its wheels are solid clouds, azure and gold,

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  Such as the genii of the thunderstorm

  Pile on the floor of the illumined sea

  When the sun rushes under it; they roll

  And move and grow as with an inward wind;

  Within it sits a wingèd infant, white

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  Its countenance, like the whiteness of bright snow,

  Its plumes are as feathers of sunny frost,

  Its limbs gleam white, through the wind-flowing folds

  Of its white robe, woof of ethereal pearl.

  Its hair is white, the brightness of white light

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  Scattered in strings; yet its two eyes are heavens

  Of liquid darkness, which the Deity

  Within seems pouring, as a storm is poured

  From jaggèd clouds, out of their arrowy lashes,

  Tempering the cold and radiant air around,

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  With fire that is not brightness; in its hand

  It sways a quivering moonbeam, from whose point

  A guiding power directs the chariot’s prow

  Over its wheelèd clouds, which as they roll

  Over the grass, and flowers, and waves, wake sounds,

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  Sweet as a singing rain of silver dew.

  Panthea. And from the other opening in the wood

  Rushes, with loud and whirlwind harmony,

  A sphere, which is as many thousand spheres,

  Solid as crystal, yet through all its mass

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  Flow, as through empty space, music and light:

  Ten thousand orbs involving and involved,

  Purple and azure, white, and green, and golden,

  Sphere within sphere; and every space between

  Peopled with unimaginable shapes,

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  Such as ghosts dream dwell in the lampless deep,

  Yet each inter-transpicuous, and they whirl

  Over each other with a thousand motions,

  Upon a thousand sightless axles spinning,

  And with the force of self-destroying swiftness,

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  Intensely, slowly, solemnly roll on,

  Kindling with mingled sounds, and many tones,

  Intelligible words and music wild.

  With mighty whirl the multitudinous orb

  Grinds the bright brook into an azure mist

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  Of elemental subtlety, like light;

  And the wild odour of the forest flowers,

  The music of the living grass and air,

  The emerald light of leaf-entangled beams

  Round its intense yet self-conflicting speed,

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  Seem kneaded into one aëreal mass

  Which drowns the sense. Within the orb itself,

  Pillowed upon its alabaster arms,

  Like to a child o’erwearied with sweet toil,

  On its own folded wings, and wavy hair,

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  The Spirit of the Earth is laid asleep,

  And you can see its little lips are moving,

  Amid the changing light of their own smiles,

  Like one who talks of what he loves in dream.

  Ione. ’Tis only mocking the orb’s harmony.

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  Panthea. And from a star upon its forehead, shoot.

  Like swords of azure fire, or golden spears

  With tyrant-quelling myrtle overtwined,

  Embleming heaven and earth united now,

  Vast beams like spokes of some invisible wheel

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  Which whirl as the orb whirls, swifter than thought,

  Filling the abyss with sun-like lightenings,

  And perpendicular now, and now transverse,

  Pierce the dark soil, and as they pierce and pass,

  Make bare the secrets of the earth’s deep heart;

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  Infinite mines of adamant and gold,

  Valueless stones, and unimagined gems,

  And caverns on crystalline columns poised

  With vegetable silver overspread;

  Wells of unfathomed fire, and water springs

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  Whence the great sea, even as a child is fed,

  Whose vapours clothe earth’s monarch mountain-tops

  With kindly, ermine snow. The beams flash on

  And make appear the melancholy ruins

  Of cancelled cycles; anchors, beaks of ships;

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  Planks turned to marble; quivers, helms, and spears,

  And gorgon-headed targes, and the wheels

  Of scythèd chariots, and the emblazonry

  Of trophies, standards, and armorial beasts,

  Round which death laughed, sepulchred emblems

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  Of dead destruction, ruin within ruin!

  The wrecks beside of many a city vast,

  Whose population which the earth grew over

  Was mortal, but not human; see, they lie,

  Their monstrous works, and uncouth skeletons,

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  Their statues, homes and fanes; prodigious shapes

  Huddled in gray annihilation, split,

  Jammed in the hard, black deep; and over these,

  The anatomies of unknown wingèd things,

  And fishes which were isles of living scale,

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  And serpents, body chains, twisted around

  The iron crags, or within heaps of dust

  To which the torture strength of their last pangs

  Had crushed the iron crags; and over these

  The jaggèd alligator, and the might

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  Of earth-convulsing behemoth, which once

  Were monarch beasts, and on the slimy shores,

  And weed-overgrown continents of earth,

  Increased and multiplied like summer worms

  On an abandoned corpse, till the blue globe

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  Wrapped deluge round it like a cloak, and they

  Yelled, gasped, and were abolished;
or some God

  Whose throne was in a comet, passed and cried,

  ‘Be not!’ And like my words they were no more.

  The Earth.

  The joy, the triumph, the delight, the madness!

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  The boundless, overflowing, bursting gladness,

  The vaporous exultation not to be confined!

  Ha! ha! the animation of delight

  Which wraps me, like an atmosphere of light,

  And bears me as a cloud is borne by its own wind,

  The Moon.

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  Brother mine, calm wanderer,

  Happy globe of land and air,

  Some Spirit is darted like a beam from thee,

  Which penetrates my frozen frame,

  And passes with the warmth of flame,

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  With love, and odour, and deep melody

  Through me, through me!

  The Earth.

  Ha! ha! the caverns of my hollow mountains,

  My cloven fire-crags, sound-exulting fountains

  Laugh with a vast and inextinguishable laughter.

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  The oceans, and the deserts, and the abysses,

  And the deep air’s unmeasured wildernesses,

  Answer from all their clouds and billows, echoing after.

  They cry aloud as I do. Sceptred curse,

  Who all our green and azure universe

  Threatenedst to muffle round with black destruction, sending

  A solid cloud to rain hot thunderstones,

  And splinter and knead down my children’s bones,

  All I bring forth, to one void mass battering and blending,—

  Until each crag-like tower, and storied column,

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  Palace, and obelisk, and temple solemn,

  My imperial mountains crowned with cloud, and snow, and fire;

  My sea-like forests, every blade and blossom

  Which finds a grave or cradle in my bosom,

  Were stamped by thy strong hate into a lifeless mire:

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  How art thou sunk, withdrawn, covered, drunk up

  By thirsty nothing, as the brackish cup

  Drained by a desert-troop, a little drop for all;

  And from beneath, around, within, above,

  Filling thy void annihilation, love

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  Burst in like light on caves cloven by the thunder-ball.

  The Moon.

  The snow upon my lifeless mountains

  Is loosened into living fountains,

  My solid oceans flow, and sing, and shine:

  A spirit from my heart bursts forth,

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  It clothes with unexpected birth

  My cold bare bosom: Oh! it must be thine

  On mine, on mine!

  Gazing on thee I feel, I know

  Green stalks burst forth, and bright flowers grow,

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  And living shapes upon my bosom move:

  Music is in the sea and air,

  Wingèd clouds soar here and there,

  Dark with the rain new buds are dreaming of:

  ’Tis love, all love!

  The Earth.

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  It interpenetrates my granite mass,

  Through tangled roots and trodden clay doth pass

  Into the utmost leaves and delicatest flowers;

  Upon the winds, among the clouds ’tis spread,

  It wakes a life in the forgotten dead,

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  They breathe a spirit up from their obscurest bowers.

  And like a storm bursting its cloudy prison

  With thunder, and with whirlwind, has arisen

  Out of the lampless caves of unimagined being:

  With earthquake shock and swiftness making shiver

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  Thought’s stagnant chaos, unremoved for ever,

  Till hate, and fear, and pain, light-vanquished shadows, fleeing,

  Leave Man, who was a many-sided mirror,

  Which could distort to many a shape of error,

  This true fair world of things, a sea reflecting love;

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  Which over all his kind, as the sun’s heaven

  Gliding o’er ocean, smooth, serene, and even,

  Darting from starry depths radiance and life, doth move:

  Leave Man, even as a leprous child is left,

  Who follows a sick beast to some warm cleft

  Of rocks, through which the might of healing springs is poured;

  Then when it wanders home with rosy smile,

  Unconscious, and its mother fears awhile

  It is a spirit, then, weeps on her child restored.

  Man, oh, not men! a chain of linked thought,

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  Of love and might to be divided not,

  Compelling the elements with adamantine stress;

  As the sun rules, even with a tyrant’s gaze,

  The unquiet republic of the maze

  Of planets, struggling fierce towards heaven’s free wilderness.

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  Man, one harmonious soul of many a soul,

  Whose nature is its own divine control,

  Where all things flow to all, as rivers to the sea;

  Familiar acts are beautiful through love;

  Labour, and pain, and grief, in life’s green grove

  Sport like tame beasts, none knew how gentle they could be!

  His will, with all mean passions, bad delights,

  And selfish cares, its trembling satellites,

  A spirit ill to guide, but mighty to obey,

  Is as a tempest-wingèd ship, whose helm

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  Love rules, through waves which dare not overwhelm,

  Forcing life’s wildest shores to own its sovereign sway.

  All things confess his strength. Through the cold mass

  Of marble and of colour his dreams pass;

  Bright threads whence mothers weave the robes their children wear;

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  Language is a perpetual Orphic song,

  Which rules with Dædal harmony a throng

  Of thoughts and forms, which else senseless and shapeless were.

  The lightning is his slave; heaven’s utmost deep

  Gives up her stars, and like a flock of sheep

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  They pass before his eye, are numbered, and roll on!

  The tempest is his steed, he strides the air;

  And the abyss shouts from her depth laid bare,

  Heaven, hast thou secrets? Man unveils me; I have none.

  The Moon.

  The shadow of white death has passed

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  From my path in heaven at last,

  A clinging shroud of solid frost and sleep;

  And through my newly-woven bowers,

  Wander happy paramours,

  Less mighty, but as mild as those who keep

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  Thy vales more deep.

  The Earth.

  As the dissolving warmth of dawn may fold

  A half unfrozen dew-globe, green, and gold,

  And crystalline, till it becomes a wingèd mist,

  And wanders up the vault of the blue day,

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  Outlives the moon, and on the sun’s last ray

  Hangs o’er the sea, a fleece of fire and amethyst.

  The Moon.

  Thou art folded, thou art lying

  In the light which is undying

  Of thine own joy, and heaven’s smile divine;

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  All suns and constellations shower

  On thee a light, a life, a power

  Which doth array thy sphere; thou pourest thine

  On mine, on mine!

  The Earth.

  I spin beneath my pyramid of night,

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  Which points into the heavens dreaming delight,

  Murmuring victorious joy in my e
nchanted sleep;

  As a youth lulled in love-dreams faintly sighing,

  Under the shadow of his beauty lying,

  Which round his rest a watch of light and warmth doth keep.

  The Moon.

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  As in the soft and sweet eclipse,

  When soul meets soul on lovers’ lips,

  High hearts are calm, and brightest eyes are dull;

  So when thy shadow falls on me,

  Then am I mute and still, by thee

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  Covered; of thy love, Orb most beautiful,

  Full, oh, too full!

  Thou art speeding round the sun

  Brightest world of many a one;

  Green and azure sphere which shinest

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  With a light which is divinest

  Among all the lamps of Heaven

  To whom life and light is given;

  I, thy crystal paramour

  Borne beside thee by a power

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  Like the polar Paradise,

  Magnet-like of lovers’ eyes;

  I, a most enamoured maiden

  Whose weak brain is overladen

  With the pleasure of her love,

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  Maniac-like around thee move

  Gazing, an insatiate bride,

  On thy form from every side

  Like a Mænad, round the cup

  Which Agave lifted up

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  In the weird Cadmæan forest.

  Brother, wheresoe’er thou soarest

  I must hurry, whirl and follow

  Through the heavens wide and hollow,

  Sheltered by the warm embrace

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  Of thy soul from hungry space,

  Drinking from thy sense and sight

  Beauty, majesty, and might,

  As a lover or a chameleon

  Grows like what it looks upon,

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