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Percy Bysshe Shelley

The Question

I DREAM'D that, as I wander'd by the way,
    Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring;
And gentle odours led my steps astray,
    Mix'd with a sound of waters murmuring
Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay
    Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling
Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,
But kiss'd it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets;
    Daisies, those pearl'd Arcturi of the earth,
The constellated flower that never sets;
    Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth
The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets—
    Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth—
Its mother's face with heaven-collected tears
When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,
    Green cowbind and the moonlight-colour'd May,
And cherry-blossoms, and white cups whose wine
    Was the bright dew yet drain'd not by the day;
And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,
    With its dark buds and leaves wandering astray;
And flowers, azure, black, and streak'd with gold,
Fairer than any waken'd eyes behold.

And nearer to the river's trembling edge
    There grew broad flag-flowers, purple prank'd with white,
And starry river-buds among the sedge,
    And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,
Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge
    With moonlight beams of their own watery light;
And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green
As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Methought that of these visionary flowers
    I made a nosegay, bound in such a way
That the same hues which in their natural bowers
    Were mingled or opposed, the like array
Kept these imprison'd children of the Hours
    Within my hand;—and then, elate and gay,
I hasten'd to the spot whence I had come,
That I might there present it—O! to whom?

 
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About the poet
Percy Bysshe Shelley
 
By the same poet
Ozymandias
Music, when Soft Voices die
Hymn of Pan
The Invitation
Hellas
To a Skylark
The Moon
Ode to the West Wind
The Indian Serenade
Night
From the Arabic: An Imitation
Lines
To ——
Remorse
 
Related books
Percy Bysshe Shelley at amazon.com


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