Percy Bysshe Shelley

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;

Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!

I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet.

Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget!

Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet—

Alas, that the torn heart can bleed but not forget.

My brain is wild, my breath comes quick—

The blood is listening in my frame,

And thronging shadows, fast and thick,

Fall on my overflowing eyes;

My heart is quivering like a flame;

In thy dark eyes a power like light doth lie,

Of all their beauty, and their hair and hue,

The life of their sweet eyes, with all its error,

Should be absorbed, till they to marble grew.

Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill

Which severs those it should unite;

Let us remain together still,

Then it will be good night.

How can I call the lone night good,

Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?

Be it not said, thought, understood—

Then it will be—good night

His face was like a snake’s—wrinkled and loose

And withered—