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


Ah! sweet is the moonbeam that sleeps on yon fountain,
And sweet the mild rush of the soft-sighing breeze,
And sweet is the glimpse of yon dimly-seen mountain,
’Neath the verdant arcades of yon shadowy trees.

But sweeter than all was thy tone of affection,
Which scarce seemed to break on the stillness of eve,
Though the time it is past !— yet the dear recollection,
For aye in the heart of thy ————— must live.

Yet he hears thy dear voice in the summer winds sighing,
Mild accents of happiness lisp in his ear,
When the hope-winged moments athwart him are flying,
And he thinks of the friend to his bosom so dear—

And thou dearest friend in his bosom for ever
Must reign unalloyed by the fast rolling year,
He loves thee, and dearest one never, Oh! Never
Canst thou cease to be loved by a heart so sincere.

Percy Bysshe Shelley