The lotus pond is bristling with pink buds;
the nights grow shorter while the empyrean’s gem,
its cloak of frost unloosed, grows bold.
Now come the days resounding with the cuckoo
and sweet with mango scent
to cut the hearts of ladies separated from their lovers.
The springtime sun
on a mountain pheasant’s tail.
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
At night my sleep
embraces the summer shadows
of my life.