PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

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 cut. 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 turned to her 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, 4 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 !

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