Shelley Songs, Cycle of Ten Songs

Voice of unseen spirits
The pale stars are gone!
   For the sun, their swift shepherd,
   To their folds them compelling,
   In the depths of the dawn,
Hastes, in meteor-eclipsing array, and they flee
   Beyond his blue dwelling,
   As fawns flee the leopard.
      But where are ye?

A Train of dark Forms and Shadows passes by confusedly, singing.
    Here, oh, here!
    We bear the bier
Of the father of many a cancelled year!
    Spectres we
    Of the dead Hours be;
We bear Time to his tomb in eternity.

    Strew, oh, strew
    Hair, not yew!
Wet the dusty pall with tears, not dew!
    Be the faded flowers
    Of Death's bare bowers
Spread on the corpse of the King of Hours!

    Haste, oh, haste!
    As shades are chased,
Trembling, by day, from heaven's blue waste,
    We melt away,
    Like dissolving spray,
From the children of a diviner day,
    With the lullaby
    Of winds that die
On the bosom of their own harmony!

A widow bird sate mourning for her love
  Upon a wintry bough,
The frozen wind crept on above;
  The freezing stream below.

There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
  No [flower]1 upon the ground
And little motion in the air,
  Except the mill-wheel's sound.

I fear thy kisses, gentle maiden;
  Thou needest not fear mine;
My spirit is too deeply laden
  Ever to burden thine.
                           
I fear thy mien, thy tones, thy motion;
  Thou needest not fear mine;
Innocent is the heart's devotion
  With which I worship thine.

If I walk in Autumn's even
While the dead leaves pass,
If I look on Spring's soft heaven, --
Something is not there which was
Winter's wondrous frost and snow, 
Summer's clouds, where are they now?

Tell me, [thou]1 Star, whose wings of light
Speed thee in thy fiery flight,
In what cavern of the night 
   Will thy pinions close now?

Tell me, Moon, thou pale and grey
Pilgrim, of Heav'ns homeless way,
In what depth of night or day,
   Seekest thou repose now?

Weary wind, who wanderest
Like the world's rejected guest
Hast thou still some secret nest
   On the tree or billow?

The flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow dies;
All that we wish to stay
Tempts and then flies.
What is this world's delight?
Lightning that mocks the night,
Brief even as bright.

Virtue, how frail it is!
Friendship how rare!
Love, how it sells poor bliss
For proud despair!
[But we, though soon they fall,
Survive their joy, and all
Which ours we call.]1

[Whilst]2 skies are blue and bright, 
Whilst flowers are gay,
Whilst eyes that change ere night
Make glad the day;
Whilst yet the calm hours creep,
Dream [thou]3 -- and from thy sleep
Then wake to weep.

Rough wind that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all [the]1 night long;
Sad storm whose tears are vain,
Bare woods, whose branches strain,
Deep caves and dreary main, --
Wail, for the world's wrong!

Swifter far than summers flight -
Swifter far than youth's delight -
Swifter far than happy night,
Art thou come and gone -
As the earth when leaves are dead,
As the night when sleep is sped,
As the heart when joy is fled,
I am left lone, alone.

The swallow summer comes again -
The owlet night resumes her reign -
But the wild-swan youth is fain
To fly with thee, false as thou. -
My heart each day desires the morrow;
Sleep itself is turned to sorrow;
Vainly would my winter borrow
Sunny leaves from any bough.

Lilies for a bridal bed -
Roses for a matron's head -
Violets for a maiden dead - 
Pansies let my flowers be :
On the living grave I bear
Scatter them without a tear -
Let no friend, however dear, 
Waste one hope, one fear for me.

When soft winds and sunny skies
With the green earth harmonize,
And the young and dewy dawn,
Bold as an unhunted fawn,
Up the windless heaven is gone, --
Laugh--for ambushed in the day, --
Clouds and whirlwinds watch their prey.

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless
Among the stars that have a different birth, --
And ever changing, like a joyless eye 
That finds no object worth its constancy?

Thou chosen sister of the Spirit,
That grazes on thee till in thee it pities...