O! there are spirits of the air
Percy Bysshe Shelley
1792 to 1822
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O! there are spirits of the air,
And of the evening breeze,
And gentle ghosts, with eyes fair
As star-beams among twilight trees:—
Such lovely to meet
Oft hast thou turned from men thy feet.
With mountain winds, and babbling springs,
And seas, that are the voice
Of these inexplicable things,
didst hold commune, and rejoice
When they did answer thee; but they
Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love away.
And thou hast sought in starry eyes
Beams were never meant for thine,
Another's wealth:—tame sacrifice
a fond faith! still dost thou pine?
Still dost hope that greeting hands,
Voice, looks, or lips, may thy demands?
Ah! wherefore didst thou build thine hope
On the false earth's inconstancy?
Did thine own mind no scope
Of love, or moving thoughts to thee?
That natural scenes or human smiles
Could steal the to wind thee in their wiles?
Yes, all the smiles are fled
Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted;
glory of the moon is dead;
Night's ghosts dreams have now departed;
Thine own soul still is to thee,
But changed to a foul fiend through misery.
This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever
Beside thee thy shadow hangs,
Dream not to chase;—the mad
Would scourge thee to severer pangs.
Be as art. Thy settled fate,
Dark as it is, all would aggravate.