Page:Prometheus Unbound - Shelley.djvu/67

SCENE I. This is the season, this the day, the hour; At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet sister mine, Too long desired, too long delaying, come! How like death-worms the wingless moments crawl! The point of one white star is quivering still Deep in the orange light of widening morn Beyond the purple mountains; thro' a chasm Of wind-divided mist the darker lake Reflects it; now it wanes; it gleams again As the waves fade, and as the burning threads Of woven cloud unravel in pale air; 'Tis lost! and thro' yon peaks of cloudlike snow The roseate sunlight quivers; hear I not The Æolian music of her sea-green plumes Winnowing the crimson dawn?

I feel, I see Those eyes which burn thro' smiles that fade in tears, Like stars half-quenched in mists of silver dew. Beloved and most beautiful, who wearest The shadow of that soul by which I live, How late thou art! the sphered sun had climbed The sea; my heart was sick with hope, before The printless air felt thy belated plumes.