Selected Poetry and Prose. Percy Bysshe Shelley

intense pensiveness—two eyes,

      Two starry eyes, hung in the gloom of thought,

      And seemed with their serene and azure smiles

      To beckon him.

      Obedient to the light

      That shone within his soul, he went, pursuing

      The windings of the dell. The rivulet,

      Wanton and wild, through many a green ravine

      Beneath the forest flowed. Sometimes it fell

      Among the moss with hollow harmony

      Dark and profound. Now on the polished stones

      It danced, like childhood laughing as it went;

      Then, through the plain in tranquil wanderings crept,

      Reflecting every herb and drooping bud

      That overhung its quietness.—‘O stream!

      Whose source is inaccessibly profound,

      Whither do thy mysterious waters tend?

      Thou imagest my life. Thy darksome stillness,

      Thy dazzling waves, thy loud and hollow gulfs,

      Thy searchless fountain and invisible course,

      Have each their type in me; and the wide sky

      And measureless ocean may declare as soon

      What oozy cavern or what wandering cloud

      Contains thy waters, as the universe

      Tell where these living thoughts reside, when stretched

      Upon thy flowers my bloodless limbs shall waste

      I’ the passing wind!’

      Beside the grassy shore

      Of the small stream he went; he did impress

      On the green moss his tremulous step, that caught

      Strong shuddering from his burning limbs. As one

      Roused by some joyous madness from the couch

      Of fever, he did move; yet not like him

      Forgetful of the grave, where, when the flame

      Of his frail exultation shall be spent,

      He must descend. With rapid steps he went

      Beneath the shade of trees, beside the flow

      Of the wild babbling rivulet; and now

      The forest’s solemn canopies were changed

      For the uniform and lightsome evening sky.

      Gray rocks did peep from the spare moss, and stemmed

      The struggling brook; tall spires of windlestrae

      Threw their thin shadows down the rugged slope,

      And nought but gnarled roots of ancient pines

      Branchless and blasted, clenched with grasping roots

      The unwilling soil. A gradual change was here

      Yet ghastly. For, as fast years flow away,

      The smooth brow gathers, and the hair grows thin

      And white, and where irradiate dewy eyes

      Had shone, gleam stony orbs:—so from his steps

      Bright flowers departed, and the beautiful shade

      Of the green groves, with all their odorous winds

      And musical motions. Calm he still pursued

      The stream, that with a larger volume now

      Rolled through the labyrinthine dell; and there

      Fretted a path through its descending curves

      With its wintry speed. On every side now rose

      Rocks, which, in unimaginable forms,

      Lifted their black and barren pinnacles

      In the light of evening, and its precipice

      Obscuring the ravine, disclosed above,

      Mid toppling stones, black gulfs and yawning caves,

      Whose windings gave ten thousand various tongues

      To the loud stream. Lo! where the pass expands

      Its stony jaws, the abrupt mountain breaks,

      And seems with its accumulated crags

      To overhang the world; for wide expand

      Beneath the wan stars and descending moon

      Islanded seas, blue mountains, mighty streams,

      Dim tracts and vast, robed in the lustrous gloom

      Of leaden-colored even, and fiery hills

      Mingling their flames with twilight, on the verge

      Of the remote horizon. The near scene,

      In naked and severe simplicity,

      Made contrast with the universe. A pine,

      Rock-rooted, stretched athwart the vacancy

      Its swinging boughs, to each inconstant blast

      Yielding one only response at each pause

      In most familiar cadence, with the howl,

      The thunder and the hiss of homeless streams

      Mingling its solemn song, whilst the broad river

      Foaming and hurrying o’er its rugged path,

      Fell into that immeasurable void,

      Scattering its waters to the passing winds.

      Yet the gray precipice and solemn pine

      And torrent were not all;—one silent nook

      Was there. Even on the edge of that vast mountain,

      Upheld by knotty roots and fallen rocks,

      It overlooked in its serenity

      The dark earth and the bending vault of stars.

      It was a tranquil spot that seemed to smile

      Even in the lap of horror. Ivy clasped

      The fissured stones with its entwining arms,

      And did embower with leaves forever green

      And berries dark the smooth and even space

      Of its inviolated floor; and here

      The children of the autumnal whirlwind bore

      In wanton sport those bright leaves whose decay,

      Red, yellow, or ethereally pale,

      Rivals the pride of summer. ’tis the haunt

      Of every gentle wind whose breath can teach

      The wilds to love tranquillity. One step,

      One human step alone, has ever broken

      The stillness of its solitude; one voice

      Alone inspired its echoes;—even that voice

      Which hither came, floating among the winds,

      And led the loveliest among human forms

      To make their wild haunts the depository

      Of all the grace and beauty that endued

      Its motions, render up its majesty,

      Scatter its music on the unfeeling storm,

      And to