Page:Prometheus Unbound - Shelley.djvu/208

 Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflowered, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves:

Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened 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 Hymenæal, Or triumphal chaunt, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt, A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.