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Percy Shelley

Percy Shelley

Song From the Wandering Jew

See yon opening flower
Spreads its fragrance to the blast;
It fades within an hour,
Its decay is pale—is fast.
Paler is yon maiden;
Faster is her heart’s decay;
Deep with sorrow laden,
She sinks in death away.

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Other works by Percy Shelley...
Mighty Eagle

Mighty eagle! thou that soarest O’er the misty mountain forest, And amid the light of morning Like a cloud of glory hiest, And when night descends defiest
Song

Rarely, rarely comest thou, Spirit of Delight! Wherefore hast thou left me now Many a day and night? Many a weary night and day
Song. Hope

And said I that all hope was fled… That sorrow and despair were mine, That each enthusiast wish was dead… Had sank beneath pale Misery’s sh… Seest thou the sunbeam’s yellow gl…
 1
Fromthe Arabic: an Imitation

My faint spirit was sitting in the… Of thy looks, my love; It panted for thee like the hind a… For the brooks, my love. Thy barb whose hoofs outspeed the…
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Methought I Was a Billow in the Crowd

Methought I was a billow in the c… Of common men, that stream without… That ocean which at once is deaf a… That I, a man, stood amid many mo… By a wayside..., which the aspect…
Fragment: “To the Moon”

Art thou pale for weariness Of climbing Heaven, and gazing on… Wandering companionless Among the stars that have a differ… And ever changing, like a joyless…
Fragment: Is It That in Some Brighter Sphere

Is it that in some brighter sphere We part from friends we meet with… Or do we see the Future pass Over the Present’s dusky glass? Or what is that that makes us seem
 1
Unrisen Splendour of the Brightest Sun

Unrisen splendour of the brightest… To rise upon our darkness, if the… Now beckoning thee out of thy mist… Could thaw the clouds which wage a… With thy young brightness!
Lines Written on Hearing the News of the Death of Napoleon

What! alive and so bold, O Earth? Art thou not overbold? What! leapest thou forth as of old In the light of thy morning mirth, The last of the flock of the starr…
The poor poet, by Carl Spitzweg
Here I sit with my paper

Here I sit with my paper, my pen… First of this thing, and that thin… Then my thoughts come so pell-mell… That the sense or the subject I n… This word is wrong placed,—no rega…
 1
Song. Cold, Cold Is the Blast When December Is Howling

Cold, cold is the blast when Dece… Cold are the damps on a dying man’… Stern are the seas when the wild w… And sad is the grave where a loved… But colder is scorn from the being…
 1
Arethusa

Arethusa arose From her couch of snows In the Acroceraunian mountains,— From cloud and from crag, With many a jag,
 1
Time

Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are… Ocean of Time, whose waters of de… Are brackish with the salt of huma… Thou shoreless flood, which in thy… Claspest the limits of mortality!
 3
To Mary

How, my dear Mary,—are you critic… (For vipers kill, though dead) by… That you condemn these verses I h… Because they tell no story, false… What, though no mice are caught by…
 1
Mont Blanc: Lines Written in the Vale of Chamouni

The everlasting universe of things Flows through the mind, and rolls… Now dark—now glittering—now reflec… Now lending splendour, where from… The source of human thought its tr…
 1



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