Selected Poetry and Prose. Percy Bysshe Shelley

above stair the eddying waters rose,

      Circling immeasurably fast, and laved

      With alternating dash the gnarled roots

      Of mighty trees, that stretched their giant arms

      In darkness over it. I’ the midst was left,

      Reflecting yet distorting every cloud,

      A pool of treacherous and tremendous calm.

      Seized by the sway of the ascending stream,

      With dizzy swiftness, round and round and round,

      Ridge after ridge the straining boat arose,

      Till on the verge of the extremest curve,

      Where through an opening of the rocky bank

      The waters overflow, and a smooth spot

      Of glassy quiet ’mid those battling tides

      Is left, the boat paused shuddering.—Shall it sink

      Down the abyss? Shall the reverting stress

      Of that resistless gulf embosom it?

      Now shall it fall?—A wandering stream of wind

      Breathed from the west, has caught the expanded sail,

      And, lo! with gentle motion between banks

      Of mossy slope, and on a placid stream,

      Beneath a woven grove, it sails, and, hark!

      The ghastly torrent mingles its far roar

      With the breeze murmuring in the musical woods.

      Where the embowering trees recede, and leave

      A little space of green expanse, the cove

      Is closed by meeting banks, whose yellow flowers

      Forever gaze on their own drooping eyes,

      Reflected in the crystal calm. The wave

      Of the boat’s motion marred their pensive task,

      Which naught but vagrant bird, or wanton wind,

      Or falling spear-grass, or their own decay

      Had e’er disturbed before. The Poet longed

      To deck with their bright hues his withered hair,

      But on his heart its solitude returned,

      And he forbore. Not the strong impulse hid

      In those flushed cheeks, bent eyes, and shadowy frame,

      Had yet performed its ministry; it hung

      Upon his life, as lightning in a cloud

      Gleams, hovering ere it vanish, ere the floods

      Of night close over it.

      The noonday sun

      Now shone upon the forest, one vast mass

      Of mingling shade, whose brown magnificence

      A narrow vale embosoms. There, huge caves,

      Scooped in the dark base of their aëry rocks,

      Mocking its moans, respond and roar forever.

      The meeting boughs and implicated leaves

      Wove twilight o’er the Poet’s path, as, led

      By love, or dream, or god, or mightier Death,

      He sought in Nature’s dearest haunt some bank,

      Her cradle and his sepulchre. More dark

      And dark the shades accumulate. The oak,

      Expanding its immense and knotty arms,

      Embraces the light beech. The pyramids

      Of the tall cedar overarching frame

      Most solemn domes within, and far below,

      Like clouds suspended in an emerald sky,

      The ash and the acacia floating hang

      Tremulous and pale. Like restless serpents, clothed

      In rainbow and in fire, the parasites,

      Starred with ten thousand blossoms, flow around

      The gray trunks, and, as gamesome infants’ eyes,

      With gentle meanings, and most innocent wiles,

      Fold their beams round the hearts of those that love,

      These twine their tendrils with the wedded boughs,

      Uniting their close union; the woven leaves

      Make network of the dark blue light of day

      And the night’s noontide clearness, mutable

      As shapes in the weird clouds. Soft mossy lawns

      Beneath these canopies extend their swells,

      Fragrant with perfumed herbs, and eyed with blooms

      Minute yet beautiful. One darkest glen

      Sends from its woods of musk-rose twined with jasmine

      A soul-dissolving odor to invite

      To some more lovely mystery. Through the dell

      Silence and Twilight here, twin-sisters, keep

      Their noonday watch, and sail among the shades,

      Like vaporous shapes half-seen; beyond, a well,

      Dark, gleaming, and of most translucent wave,

      Images all the woven boughs above,

      And each depending leaf, and every speck

      Of azure sky darting between their chasms;

      Nor aught else in the liquid mirror laves

      Its portraiture, but some inconstant star,

      Between one foliaged lattice twinkling fair,

      Or painted bird, sleeping beneath the moon,

      Or gorgeous insect floating motionless,

      Unconscious of the day, ere yet his wings

      Have spread their glories to the gaze of noon.

      Hither the Poet came. His eyes beheld

      Their own wan light through the reflected lines

      Of his thin hair, distinct in the dark depth

      Of that still fountain; as the human heart,

      Gazing in dreams over the gloomy grave,

      Sees its own treacherous likeness there. He heard

      The motion of the leaves—the grass that sprung

      Startled and glanced and trembled even to feel

      An unaccustomed presence—and the sound

      Of the sweet brook that from the secret springs

      Of that dark fountain rose. A Spirit seemed

      To stand beside him—clothed in no bright robes

      Of shadowy silver or enshrining light,

      Borrowed from aught the visible world affords

      Of grace, or majesty, or mystery;

      But undulating woods, and silent well,

      And leaping rivulet, and evening gloom

      Now deepening the dark shades, for speech assuming,

      Held commune with him, as if he and it

      Were all that was; only—when his regard

      Was