Page:Prometheus Unbound - Shelley.djvu/64

60 Of music, when the inspired voice and lute Languish, ere yet the responses are mute, Which thro' the deep and labyrinthine soul, Like echoes thro' long caverns, wind and roll.

How fair these air-born shapes! and yet I feel Most vain all hope but love; and thou art far, Asia! who, when my being overflowed, Wert like a golden chalice to bright wine Which else had sunk into the thirsty dust. All things are still. Alas! how heavily This quiet morning weighs upon my heart; Though I should dream I could even sleep with grief, If slumber were denied not. I would fain Be what it is my destiny to be, The saviour and the strength of suffering man, Or sink into the original gulf of things: There is no agony, and no solace left; Earth can console, Heaven can torment no more. Hast thou forgotten one who watches thee The cold dark night, and never sleeps but when The shadow of thy spirit falls on her?

I said all hope was vain but love: thou lovest.

Deeply in truth; but the eastern star looks white,