Page:Prometheus Unbound - Shelley.djvu/34

30 My wings are folded o'er mine ears; My wings are crossed o'er mine eyes; Yet thro' their silver shade appears, And thro' their lulling plumes arise, A Shape, a throng of sounds. May it be no ill to thee O thou of many wounds! Near whom, for our sweet sister's sake, Ever thus we watch and wake.

The sound is of whirlwind underground, Earthquake, and fire, and mountains cloven; The shape is awful, like the sound, Clothed in dark purple, star-inwoven. A sceptre of pale gold, To stay steps proud, o'er the slow cloud, His veined hand doth hold. Cruel he looks, but calm and strong, Like one who does, not suffers wrong.

Why have the secret powers of this strange world