The Romantic Way

The name of Percy Bysshe Shelley, the brilliant English poet from the early 19th century, is often heard in the same breath as his friends Byron and Keats, all great poets from the later romantic period. His second wife, Mary is best known for her work, “Frankenstein”. His life was tainted with tragedy as his first wife, Harriet, commit suicide drowning herself in Hyde park, and Shelley himself died by drowning when only thirty years old.

Although Shelley was a poet from the romantic period, that's not to say that his poetry is all about romance. Rather, romantics wrote about nature, life, pain, depression, baring their emotions—not a trendy thing to do.

How you take Shelley's poetry really depends on how it grabs you at the moment. You might find it beautiful, sentimental and even... romantic. On another day Shelley can be mushy and incredibly misguided. See for yourself.

"Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments
of the happiest and best minds." —Percy Bysshe Shelley

Probably he's most loved and appreciated for “Ozymandias”, inspired by the inscription below of Ramesses II. It's a vivid image he paints. The great defies the humbling steady onset of time and is crushed, yet his words still defy—pathetically

I am Ozymandias, King of kings.
If anyone would know how great I am
and where I lie,
let him surpass any of my works.

Ozymandias

Love's Philosophy

The Indian Serenade

Night

To a Skylark

To Jane

Ozymandias

Percy Bysshe Shelley
I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert ... Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works ye mighty and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Love's Philosophy

Percy Bysshe Shelley
The fountains mingle with the river,
   And the rivers with the ocean;
The winds of heaven mix forever
   With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single;
   All things by a law divine
In another's being mingle--
   Why not I with thine?

See, the mountains kiss high heaven,
   And the waves clasp one another;
No sister flower could be forgiven
   If it disdained its brother;
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
   And the moonbeams kiss the sea;--
What is all this sweet work worth,
   If thou kiss not me?

The Indian Serenade

Percy Bysshe Shelley
I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sleep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright
I arise from dreams of thee,
And a spirit in my feet
Hath led me -- who knows how? --
To thy chamber window, Sweet!

The wandering airs they faint
On the dark, the silent stream --
The champak odors fail
Like sweet thoughts in a dream;
The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart;
As I must on thine,
Oh, beloved as thou art!

O lift me from the grass!
I die! I faint! I fail!
Let thy love in kisses rain
On my lips and eyelids pale.
My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast;--
Oh! press it to thine own again,
Where it will break at last.

Night

Percy Bysshe Shelley
Swifty walk o'er the western wave,
   Spirit of Night!
Out of the misty eastern cave,--
Where, all the long and lone daylight,
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear
Which make thee terrible and dear,--
   Swift be thy flight!

Wrap thy form in a mantle grey,
   Star-inwrought!
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day;
Kiss her until she be wearied out.
Then wander o'er city and sea and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand--
   Come, long-sought!

When I arose and saw the dawn,
   I sigh'd for thee;
When light rode high, and the dew was gone,
And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
And the weary Day turn'd to his rest,
Lingering like an unloved guest,
   I sigh'd for thee.

Thy brother Death came, and cried,
   'Wouldst thou me?'
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmur'd like a noontide bee,
'Shall I nestle near thy side?
Wouldst thou me?'--And I replied,
   'No, not thee!'

Death will come when thou art dead,
   Soon, too soon--
Sleep will come when thou art fled.
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, beloved Night--
Swift be thine approaching flight,
   Come soon, soon!

To a Skylark

Percy Bysshe Shelley
     Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
       Bird thou never wert-
     That from heaven or near it
       Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

     Higher still and higher
       From the earth thou springest,
     Like a cloud of fire;
       The blue deep thou wingest,
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

     In the golden light'ning
       Of the sunken sun,
     O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
       Thou dost float and run,
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

     The pale purple even
       Melts around thy flight;
     Like a star of heaven,
       In the broad daylight
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight-

     Keen as are the arrows
       Of that silver sphere
     Whose intense lamp narrows
       In the white dawn clear,
Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.

     All the earth and air
       With thy voice is loud,
     As when night is bare,
       From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd.

     What thou art we know not;
       What is most like thee?
     From rainbow clouds there flow not
       Drops so bright to see,
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody:-

     Like a poet hidden
       In the light of thought,
     Singing hymns unbidden,
       Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:

     Like a high-born maiden
       In a palace tower,
     Soothing her love-laden
       Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:

     Like a glow-worm golden
       In a dell of dew,
     Scattering unbeholden
       Its aërial hue
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:

     Like a rose embower'd
       In its own green leaves,
     By warm winds deflower'd,
       Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-wingèd thieves.

     Sound of vernal showers
       On the twinkling grass,
     Rain-awaken'd flowers-
       All that ever was
Joyous and clear and fresh-thy music doth surpass.

     Teach us, sprite or bird,
       What sweet thoughts are thine:
     I have never heard
       Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

     Chorus hymeneal,
       Or triumphal chant,
     Match'd with thine would be all
       But an empty vaunt-
A thin wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

     What objects are the fountains
       Of thy happy strain?
     What fields, or waves, or mountains?
       What shapes of sky or plain?
What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?

     With thy clear keen joyance
       Languor cannot be:
     Shadow of annoyance
       Never came near thee:
Thou lovest, but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.

     Waking or asleep,
       Thou of death must deem
     Things more true and deep
       Than we mortals dream,
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?

     We look before and after,
       And pine for what is not:
     Our sincerest laughter
       With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

     Yet, if we could scorn
       Hate and pride and fear,
     If we were things born
       Not to shed a tear,
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.

     Better than all measures
       Of delightful sound,
     Better than all treasures
       That in books are found,
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

     Teach me half the gladness
       That thy brain must know;
     Such harmonious madness
       From my lips would flow,
The world should listen then, as I am listening now.

To Jane

Percy Bysshe Shelley
The keen stars were twinkling
And the fair moon was rising among them,
Dear Jane:
The guitar was tinkling,
But the notes were not sweet till you sung them
Again.
As the moon's soft splendor
O'er the faint cold starlight of heaven
Is thrown,
So your voice most tender
To the strings without soul had then given
Its own.

The stars will awaken,
Though the moon sleep a full hour later,
Tonight;
No leaf will be shaken
Whilst the dews of your melody scatter
Delight.
Though the sound overpowers,
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone
Of some world far from ours
Where music and moonlight and feeling
Are one.

Yours along TheRomanticWay!


Rod & Holly