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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=478123" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Epipsychidion: Passages Of The Poem, Or Connected Therewith</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">Here, my dear friend, is a new book for you;<br>I have already dedicated two<br>To other friends, one female and one male,--<br>What you are, is a thing that I must veil;<br>What can this be to those who praise or rail?<br>I never was attached to that great sect<br>Whose doctrine is that each one should select<br>Out of the world a mistress or a friend,<br>And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend<br>To cold oblivion-though 'tis in the code<br>Of modern morals, and the beaten road<br>Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread<br>Who travel to their home among the dead<br>By the broad highway of the world-and so<br>With one sad friend, and many a jealous foe,<br>The dreariest and the longest journey go.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>Free love has this, different from gold and clay,<br>That to divide is not to take away.<br>Like ocean, which the general north wind breaks<br>Into ten thousand waves, and each one makes<br>A mirror of the moon -- like some great glass,<br>Which did distort whatever form might pass,<br>Dashed into fragments by a playful child,<br>Which then reflects its eyes and forehead mild;<br>Giving for one, which it could ne'er express,<br>A thousand images of loveliness.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>If I were one whom the loud world held wise,<br>I should disdain to quote authorities<br>In commendation of this kind of love:--<br>Why there is first the God in heaven above,<br>Who wrote a book called Nature, 'tis to be<br>Reviewed, I hear, in the next Quarterly;<br>And Socrates, the Jesus Christ of Greece,<br>And Jesus Christ Himself, did never cease<br>To urge all living things to love each other,<br>And to forgive their mutual faults, and smother<br>The Devil of disunion in their souls.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>. . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I love you!-- Listen, O embodied Ray<br>Of the great Brightness; I must pass away<br>While you remain, and these light words must be<br>Tokens by which you may remember me.<br>Start not-the thing you are is unbetrayed,<br>If you are human, and if but the shade<br>Of some sublimer spirit . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>. . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And as to friend or mistress, 'tis a form;<br>Perhaps I wish you were one. Some declare<br>You a familiar spirit, as you are;<br>Others with a . . . more inhuman<br>Hint that, though not my wife, you are a woman;<br>What is the colour of your eyes and hair?<br>Why, if you were a lady, it were fair<br>The world should know-but, as I am afraid,<br>The Quarterly would bait you if betrayed;<br>And if, as it will be sport to see them stumble<br>Over all sorts of scandals, hear them mumble<br>Their litany of curses-some guess right,<br>And others swear you're a Hermaphrodite;<br>Like that sweet marble monster of both sexes,<br>Which looks so sweet and gentle that it vexes<br>The very soul that the soul is gone<br>Which lifted from her limbs the veil of stone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>. . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It is a sweet thing, friendship, a dear balm,<br>A happy and auspicious bird of calm,<br>Which rides o'er life's ever tumultuous Ocean;<br>A God that broods o'er chaos in commotion;<br>A flower which fresh as Lapland roses are,<br>Lifts its bold head into the world's frore air,<br>And blooms most radiantly when others die,<br>Health, hope, and youth, and brief prosperity;<br>And with the light and odour of its bloom,<br>Shining within the dungeon and the tomb;<br>Whose coming is as light and music are<br>'Mid dissonance and gloom -- a star<br>Which moves not 'mid the moving heavens alone--<br>A smile among dark frowns-a gentle tone<br>Among rude voices, a belovèd light,<br>A solitude, a refuge, a delight.<br>If I had but a friend! Why, I have three<br>Even by my own confession; there may be<br>Some more, for what I know, for 'tis my mind<br>To call my friends all who are wise and kind,--<br>And these, Heaven knows, at best are very few;<br>But none can ever be more dear than you.<br>Why should they be? My muse has lost her wings,<br>Or like a dying swan who soars and sings,<br>I should describe you in heroic style,<br>But as it is, are you not void of guile?<br>A lovely soul, formed to be blessed and bless:<br>A well of sealed and secret happiness;<br>A lute which those whom Love has taught to play<br>Make music on to cheer the roughest day,<br>And enchant sadness till it sleeps? . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>. . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">To the oblivion whither I and thou,<br>All loving and all lovely, hasten now<br>With steps, ah, too unequal! may we meet<br>In one Elysium or one winding-sheet!</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>If any should be curious to discover<br>Whether to you I am a friend or lover,<br>Let them read Shakespeare's sonnets, taking thence<br>A whetstone for their dull intelligence<br>That tears and will not cut, or let them guess<br>How Diotima, the wise prophetess,<br>Instructed the instructor, and why he<br>Rebuked the infant spirit of melody<br>On Agathon's sweet lips, which as he spoke<br>Was as the lovely star when morn has broke<br>The roof of darkness, in the golden dawn,<br>Half-hidden, and yet beautiful.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>I'll pawn<br>My hopes of Heaven-you know what they are worth--<br>That the presumptuous pedagogues of Earth,<br>If they could tell the riddle offered here<br>Would scorn to be, or being to appear<br>What now they seem and are -- but let them chide,<br>They have few pleasures in the world beside;<br>Perhaps we should be dull were we not chidden,<br>Paradise fruits are sweetest when forbidden.<br>Folly can season Wisdom, Hatred Love.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>. . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Farewell, if it can be to say farewell<br>To those who . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>. . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">I will not, as most dedicators do,<br>Assure myself and all the world and you,<br>That you are faultless -- would to God they were<br>Who taunt me with your love! I then should wear<br>These heavy chains of life with a light spirit,<br>And would to God I were, or even as near it<br>As you, dear heart. Alas! what are we? Clouds<br>Driven by the wind in warring multitudes,<br>Which rain into the bosom of the earth,<br>And rise again, and in our death and birth,<br>And through our restless life, take as from heaven<br>Hues which are not our own, but which are given,<br>And then withdrawn, and with inconstant glance<br>Flash from the spirit to the countenance.<br>There is a Power, a Love, a Joy, a God<br>Which makes in mortal hearts its brief abode,<br>A Pythian exhalation, which inspires<br>Love, only love -- a wind which o'er the wires<br>Of the soul's giant harp<br>There is a mood which language faints beneath;<br>You feel it striding, as Almighty Death<br>His bloodless steed . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>. . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And what is that most brief and bright delight<br>Which rushes through the touch and through the sight,<br>And stands before the spirit's inmost throne,<br>A naked Seraph? None hath ever known.<br>Its birth is darkness, and its growth desire;<br>Untameable and fleet and fierce as fire,<br>Not to be touched but to be felt alone,<br>It fills the world with glory -- and is gone.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>. . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">It floats with rainbow pinions o'er the stream<br>Of life, which flows, like a . . . dream<br>Into the light of morning, to the grave<br>As to an ocean . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>. . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">What is that joy which serene infancy<br>Perceives not, as the hours content them by,<br>Each in a chain of blossoms, yet enjoys<br>The shapes of this new world, in giant toys<br>Wrought by the busy . . . ever new?<br>Remembrance borrows Fancy's glass, to show<br>These forms more . . . sincere<br>Than now they are, than then, perhaps, they were.<br>When everything familiar seemed to be<br>Wonderful, and the immortality<br>Of this great world, which all things must inherit,<br>Was felt as one with the awakening spirit,<br>Unconscious of itself, and of the strange<br>Distinctions which in its proceeding change<br>It feels and knows, and mourns as if each were<br>A desolation . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>. . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Were it not a sweet refuge, Emily,<br>For all those exiles from the dull insane<br>Who vex this pleasant world with pride and pain,<br>For all that band of sister-spirits known<br>To one another by a voiceless tone?</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>. . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">If day should part us night will mend division<br>And if sleep parts us -- we will meet in vision<br>And if life parts us -- we will mix in death<br>Yielding our mite [?] of unreluctant breath<br>Death cannot part us -- we must meet again<br>In all in nothing in delight in pain:<br>How, why or when or where-it matters not<br>So that we share an undivided lot . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br>. . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And we will move possessing and possessed<br>Wherever beauty on the earth's bare [?] breast<br>Lies like the shadow of thy soul -- till we<br>Become one being with the world we see . . .</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Percy+Bysshe+Shelley">Percy Bysshe Shelley</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=478123" data-title="Epipsychidion: Passages Of The Poem, Or Connected Therewith de Percy Bysshe Shelley" data-description="Here, my dear friend, is a new book for you;
I have already dedicated two
To other friends, one female and one male,--
What you are, is a thing that I must veil;
What can this be to those who praise or rail?
I never was attached to that great sect..."></div>
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