With Shelley in Italy : being a selection of the poems and letters of Percy Bysshe Shelley which have to do with his life in Italy from 1818 to 1822 . of Summer snow,And clothed with light of aery goldThe mists in their eastern caves uprolled. Day had awakened all things that be, The lark and the thrush and the swallow free, And the milkmaids song and the mowers scythe,And the matin-bell and the mountain bee :Tire-flies were quenched on the dewy corn. Glow-worms went out on the rivers brim. Like lamps which a student forgets to trim :The beetle forgot to wind his horn. The crickets were still
With Shelley in Italy : being a selection of the poems and letters of Percy Bysshe Shelley which have to do with his life in Italy from 1818 to 1822 . of Summer snow,And clothed with light of aery goldThe mists in their eastern caves uprolled. Day had awakened all things that be, The lark and the thrush and the swallow free, And the milkmaids song and the mowers scythe,And the matin-bell and the mountain bee :Tire-flies were quenched on the dewy corn. Glow-worms went out on the rivers brim. Like lamps which a student forgets to trim :The beetle forgot to wind his horn. The crickets were still in the meadow and hill:Like a flock of rooks at a farmers gunNights dreams and terrors, every from the brains which are their preyFrom the lamps death to the morning ray. All rose to do the task He set to each, Who shaped us to his ends and not our own ; The million rose to learn, and one to teachWhat none yet ever knew or can be many rose . . Whose woe was such that fear became desire; — Melchior and Lionel were not among those ; ^ 1 These names doubtless stand to signify Williams (Melchjor) andShelley (Lionel). [ 250 ]. 1=; z. — ^ o THE YEARS 1820 AND 1821 They from the throng of men had stepped made their home under the green -was that hill, whose intervening brow Screens Lucca from the Pisans envious eye,i?Which the circumfluous plain waving below. Like a wide lake of green fertility,With streams and fields and marshes bare. Divides from the far Apennines — which lieIslanded in the immeasurable air. What think you, as she lies in her green cove. Our little sleeping boat is dreaming of ? If morning dreams are true, why I should guess That she was dreaming of our idleness. And of the miles of watery way We should have led her by this time of day. — Never mind, said Lionel, Give care to the winds, they can bear it wellAbout yon poplar tops ; and seeThe white clouds are driving merrily. And the stars we miss this morn will light
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