Page 567

Percy Bysshe Shelley. (1792–1822) (continued)

5865

A lovely lady, garmented in light
From her own beauty.

The Witch of Atlas. Stanza 5.

5866

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Music, when soft Voices die.

5867

I love tranquil solitude
And such society
As is quiet, wise, and good.

Rarely, rarely comest Thou.

5868

    Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
      A tone
  Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling
      Are one.

To Jane. The keen Stars were twinkling.

5869

    The desire of the moth for the star,
  Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
  From the sphere of our sorrow.

One Word is too often profaned.

5870

You lie—under a mistake, 1
For this is the most civil sort of lie
That can be given to a man’s face. I now
Say what I think.

Translation of Calderon’s Magico Prodigioso. Scene i.

5871

How wonderful is Death!
Death and his brother Sleep.

Queen Mab. i.

5872

Power, like a desolating pestilence,
Pollutes whate’er it touches; and obedience,
Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth,
Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame
A mechanized automaton.

Queen Mab. iii.

Note 1.
See Swift, Quotation 36. [back]

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