Collected Works (Vol. I)

IN THE WOODS WITH SHELLEY 125 Linger, dew, linger and gem All the fresh flowers in the garland ; Blossom, leaf, bud and green stem Flash with your light to some far land, Where men shall wonder if you be not a newly-be~- starland. Ah! the sweet scents of the woods! Ah! the sweet sounds of the heaven ! Sights of impetuous floods, Foam like the daisy at even, Folding o’er passionate gold petals that sun- rise had riven ! See, like my life is the stream Now its desire is grown quiet ; Life was a passionate dream Once, when light fancy ran riot, Now, ere youth fades, flows in peace past woody bank and green eyot. Highest, white heather and rock, Mountain and pine, with young laughter, Breezes that murmur and mock Duller delights to come after, Wild as a swallow that dives whither the sea wind would waft her. Lower, an ocean of flowers, Trees that are warmer and leafier, Starrier, sunnier hours Spurning the stain of all grief here, Bringing a quiet delight to us, beyond our belief, here. Lastly, the uttermost sea, Starred with the flakes of spray sunlit, Blue as its caverns that be Crystal, resplendent, yet unlit ; So like a mother receives the kiss of the dainty-lip runlet. Ifere the green moss is my seat, Beech is a canopy o’er me, Calm and:‘content the retreat ; Man, my worst foe, cannot bore me: Life is a closed book behind—Shelley an open before me. Shelley’s own birds are above Close to me (why should they fear me ?) May I believe it—that love Brings his bright spirit so near me That, should I whisper one word—Shelley’s swift spirit would hear me. Heaven is not very far ; Soul unto soul may be calling When a swift meteor star Through the quick vista is falling. Loose but your soul—shall its wings find the white way so appalling? Heaven, as I understand, Nearer than some folk would make it ; God—should you stretch out a hand, Who can be quicker to take it? Then you have pacted an oath—judge you if He will forsake it ! I have had hope in the spring -- Trust that the God who has given Flowers, and the thrushes that sing Dawnwards all night, and at even Year after year, will be true now we are speaking of heaven. Breezes carcss me and creep Over the world to admire it ; sweet air shall sigh me to sleep, Softly my lips shall respire it, Lying half-closed: with a kiss ready for who shall desire it. A VISION UPON USIIBAa [eRe in the wild Caucasian night, The sleepless years Scem to pass by in garments white, Made white with tears, A pageant of intolerable light Across the sombre sphcres, And, mingling with the tumult of the morn, Mecthought a single rose of blood was born, 1A mountain in the Caucasus. mi Crowley never visited this district.