Author Topic: Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Sunset  (Read 3156 times)

DiVx

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Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Sunset
« on: 14 Mar, 2008, 15:37:24 »
Percy Bysshe Shelley, The Sunset


 There late was One within whose subtle being,
 As light and wind within some delicate cloud
 That fades amid the blue noon's burning sky,
 Genius and death contended. None may know
 The sweetness of the joy which made his breath
 Fail, like the trances of the summer air,
 When, with the lady of his love, who then
 First knew the unreserve of mingled being,
 He walked along the pathway of a field
 Which to the east a hoar wood shadowed o'er,
 But to the west was open to the sky.
 There now the sun had sunk, but lines of gold
 Hung on the ashen clouds, and on the points
 Of the far level grass and nodding flowers
 And the old dandelion's hoary beard,
 And, mingled with the shades of twilight, lay
 On the brown massy woods - and in the east
 The broad and burning moon lingeringly rose
 Between the black trunks of the crowded trees,
 While the faint stars were gathering overhead.
 "Is it not strange, Isabel," said the youth,
 "I never saw the sun? We will walk here
 To-morrow; thou shalt look on it with me."

 That night the youth and lady mingled lay
 In love and sleep - but when the morning came
 The lady found her lover dead and cold.
 Let none believe that God in mercy gave
 That stroke. The lady died not, nor grew wild,
 But year by year lived on - in truth I think
 Her gentleness and patience and sad smiles,
 And that she did not die, but lived to tend
 Her agèd father, were a kind of madness,
 If madness 'tis to be unlike the world.
 For but to see her were to read the tale
 Woven by some subtlest bard, to make hard hearts
 Dissolve away in wisdom-working grief;
 Her eyes were black and lustreless and wan:
 Her eyelashes were worn away with tears,
 Her lips and cheeks were like things dead - so pale;
 Her hands were thin, and through their wandering veins
 And weak articulations might be seen
 Day's ruddy light. The tomb of thy dead self
 Which one vexed ghost inhabits, night and day,
 Is all, lost child, that now remains of thee!

 "Inheritor of more than earth can give,
 Passionless calm and silence unreproved,
 Where the dead find, oh, not sleep! but rest,
 And are the uncomplaining things they seem,
 Or live, a drop in the deep sea of Love;
 Oh, that like thine, mine epitaph were - Peace!"
 This was the only moan she ever made.
« Last Edit: 03 Jun, 2011, 09:32:28 by Frederique »