written on a beautiful day in spring

In that strange mental wandering when to live,
To breathe, to be, is undivided joy,
When the most woe-worn wretch would cease to grieve,
When satiation’s self would fail to cloy;
When unpercipient of all other things
Than those that press around, the breathing Earth
The gleaming sky and the fresh season’s birth,
Sensation all its wondrous rapture brings
And to itself not once the mind recurs—
Is it foretaste of Heaven?
So sweet as this the nerves it stirs,
And mingling in the vital tide
With gentle motion driven,
Cheers the sunk spirits, lifts the languid eye,
And scattering thro’ the frame its influence wide
Revives the spirits when they droop and die
The frozen blood with genial beaming warms
And to a gorgeous fly the sluggish worm transforms.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

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