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The clash of the hail sweeps over the plain –
Night is coming!
I see the light, and I hear the sound ;
I'll sail on the flood of the tempest dark, With the calm within and the light around
Which makes night day; And thou, when the gloom is deep and stark,
Look from thy dull earth, slumber-bound; My moon-like flight thou then mayst mark
On high, far away.
Some say there is a precipice
Where one vast pine is frozen to ruin
Mid Alpine mountains ;
That wingèd shape forever flies
Its aëry fountains.
Some say when nights are dry and clear,
And the death-dews sleep on the morass, Sweet whispers are heard by the traveller,
Which make night day; And a silver shape like his early love doth pass,
Upborne by her wild and glittering hair, And, when he awakes on the fragrant grass,
He finds night day.
31 moon-like, Mrs. Shelley, 1824 || moonlight, Mrs. Shelley, 18391. 44 makes, Mrs. Shelley, 1824.
LETTER TO MARIA GISBORNE
LEGHORN, July 1, 1820. The spider spreads her webs whether she be In poet's tower, cellar, or barn, or tree; The silkworm in the dark green mulberry leaves His winding sheet and cradle ever weaves ; So I, a thing whom moralists call worm, Sit spinning still round this decaying form, From the fine threads of rare and subtle thought No net of words in garish colors wrought To catch the idle buzzers of the day But a soft cell, where when that fades away Memory may clothe in wings my living name And feed it with the asphodels of fame, Which in those hearts which must remember me Grow, making love an immortality.
Whoever should behold me now, I wist, Would think I were a mighty mechanist, Bent with sublime Archimedean art To breathe a soul into the iron heart Of some machine portentous, or strange gin, Which by the force of figured spells might win Its way over the sea, and sport therein ; For round the walls are hung dread engines, such As Vulcan never wrought for Jove to clutch Ixion or the Titan, — or the quick
Letter to Mariu Gisborne. Mrs. Shelley, 18391 || Letter to Mrs. Shelley, 1824. Published by Mrs. Shelley, 1824.
2 cellar, or barn, Mrs. Shelley, 1824 || cellar, barn, Mrs. Shelley, transcript.
13 must, Boscombe MS. || most, Mrs. Shelley, transcript, 1824.
Wit of that man of God, St. Dominic,
27 philanthropic, Boscombe MS. || philosophic, Mrs. Shelley, transcript, 1824.
29 Mrs. Shelley, 18392 || They owed ... Mrs. Shelley, 1824. 36 Which fishers, Boscombe MS., Mrs. Shelley, transcript || Which fishes, Mrs. Shelley, 1824, With fishes, Mrs. Shelley, 18391.
38 rarely, Mrs. Shelley, transcript || seldom, Mrs. Shelley, 1824. 49 and, Mrs. Shelley, 1824 || or, Mrs. Shelley, transcript.
To puzzle Tubal Cain and all his brood;
quaff Another rouse, and hold their sides and laugh. This quicksilver no gnome has drunk — within The walnut bowl it lies, veinèd and thin, In color like the wake of light that stains The Tuscan deep, when from the moist moon rains The inmost shower of its white fire the breeze Is still blue heaven smiles over the pale seas. And in this bowl of quicksilver — for I Yield to the impulse of an infancy Outlasting manhood – I have made to float A rude idealism of a paper boat, -A hollow screw with cogs
Henry will know The thing I mean and laugh at me, if so He fears not I should do more mischief. Next Lie bills and calculations much perplexed, With steamboats, frigates, and machinery quaint
63 towers, Mrs. Shelley, transcript Il towns, Mrs. Shelley, 1824. 84 queer, Boscombe MS. || green, Mrs. Shelley, transcript, 1824.
Traced over them in blue and yellow paint.
cry out, “ heads or tails ? " where'er we be.
And here like some weird Archimage sit I, Plotting dark spells, and devilish enginery,
92 odd hooks, Mrs. Shelley transcript || old hooks, Mrs. Shelley, 1824, old books, Mrs. Shelley, 18391.
100 those Mrs. Shelley, transcript || them, Mrs. Shelley, 1824. 101 lead, Boscombe MS. || least, Mrs. Shelley, transcript, 1824.