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 (1905) (14801959063)

Identifier: withshelleyinitashelrich (find matches)
Title: 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
Year: 1905 (1900s)
Authors: Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 1792-1822 McMahan, Anna Benneson
Subjects: Poetry of places -- Italy Italy -- Description and travel Poetry
Publisher: Chicago : McClurg
Contributing Library: University of California Libraries
Digitizing Sponsor: MSN



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ay that I am proud — that when I speakMy lip is tortured with the wrongs which breakThe spirit it expresses . . . Never oneHumbled himself before, as I have done !Even the instinctive worm on which we treadTurns, tho it wound not — then with prostrate headSinks in the dusk and writhes hke me — and dies ?No : wears a living death of agonies !As the slow shadows of the pointed grassMark the eternal periods, his pangs passSlow, ever-moving, — making moments beAs mine seem — each an immortality ! • ••••• That you had never seen me — never heardMy voice, and more than all had neer enduredThe deep pollution of my loathed embrace —That your eyes neer had lied love in my face —That, like some maniac monk, I had torn outThe nerves of manhood by their bleeding rootWith mine own quivering fingers, so that neerOur hearts had for a moment mingled thereTo disunite in horror—these were notWith thee, like some suppressed and hideous thought(52) EANING Towersof liolotrua.
Text Appearing After Image:
Yuu muiht almost fancy the citj/ it> rockedby an earthquake.^ — Letter from Bologna, p. GG. THE YEAR 1818 Wliich flits athwart our musings^ but can findNo rest -within a pure and gentle mind . . .Thou sealedst them with many a bare broad wordAnd searedst my memory o^er them, — for I heardAnd can forget not . . . they were ministeredOne after one, those curses. Mix them upLike self-destroying poisons in one cup,And they will make one blessing which thou ne^erDidst imprecate for, on me, — death. It wereA cruel punishment for one most cruelIf such can love, to make that love the fuelOf the minds hell; hate, scorn, remorse, despair :But me — whose heart a strangers tear might wearAs water-drops the sandy fountain-stone.Who loved and pitied all things, and could moanFor woes which others hear not, and could seeThe absent with the glance of phantasy.And with the poor and trampled sit and weep,Following the captive to his dungeon deep ;Me — who am as a nerve oer which do creepTh