THE CLOUD. BY SHELLEY. I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, I bear light shades for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rock'd to rest on their mother's breast, I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under, And then again I dissolve it in rain, I sift the snow on the mountains below, While I sleep in the arms of the blast. In a cavern under is fetter'd the thunder, Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion Lured by the love of the genii that move Over the rills, and the crags, and the hills, Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, When the morning-star shines dead. As on the jag of a mountain crag, Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardors of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest, on mine airy nest, That orbed maiden, with white fire laden, Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, And I laugh to see them whirl and flee, Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent, Till the calm rivers, lakes, and seas, I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone, The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim, The mountains its columns be. When the powers of the air are chain'd to my chair, The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove, I am the daughter of earth and water, And the nursling of the sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when with never a stain, The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams, Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise and unbuild it again. THE FUGITIVES. BY SHELLEY. I. THE waters are flashing, The whirlwind is rolling, The forest is swinging, The Earth is like Ocean, Wreck-strewn and in motion Bird, beast, man and wormHave crept out of the storm Come away! II. "Our boat has one sail, And the helmsman is pale ; |