Page:The complete poetical works of Percy Bysshe Shelley, including materials never before printed in any edition of the poems.djvu/588

558 Some might lament that I were cold, As I, when this sweet day is gone, Which my lost heart, too soon grown old, Insults with this untimely moan; They might lament—for I am one Whom men love not.—and yet regret, Unlike this day, which, when the sun Shall on its stainless glory set, Will linger, though enjoyed, like joy in memory yet.

whose rough heart was out of tune (I think such hearts yet never came to good) Hated to hear, under the stars or moon,

One nightingale in an interfluous wood Satiate the hungry dark with melody;— And as a vale is watered by a flood,

Or as the moonlight fills the open sky Struggling with darkness-as a tuberose Peoples some Indian dell with scents which lie

Like clouds above the flower from which they rose, The singing of that happy nightingale In this sweet forest, from the golden close

Of evening till the star of dawn may fail, Was interfused upon the silentness; The folded roses and the violets pale

Heard her within their slumbers, the abyss Of heaven with all its planets; the dull ear Of the night-cradled earth; the loneliness

Of the circumfluous waters,—every sphere And every flower and beam and cloud and wave, And every wind of the mute atmosphere,

And every beast stretched in its rugged cave, And every bird lulled on its mossy bough, And every silver moth fresh from the grave

Which is its cradle—ever from below Aspiring like one who loves too fair, too far, To be consumed within the purest glow

Of one serene and unapproached star, As if it were a lamp of earthly light, Unconscious, as some human lovers are,