Percy Bysshe Shelley

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;

If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;

Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!

I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

Day’s ruddy light. The tomb of thy dead self

Which one vexed ghost inhabits, night and day,

Is all, lost child, that now remains of thee!

‘Inheritor of more than earth can give,

Thine eyes glowed in the glare

Of the moon’s dying light;

Misery—O Misery,

This world is all too wide for thee.

Her voice did quiver as we parted,

Yet knew I not that heart was broken

From which it came, and I departed

Heeding not the words then spoken.

Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet.

Alas, that the torn heart can bleed, but not forget!

Even while I write, my burning cheeks are wet—

Alas, that the torn heart can bleed but not forget.

My brain is wild, my breath comes quick—

The blood is listening in my frame,

And thronging shadows, fast and thick,

Fall on my overflowing eyes;

My heart is quivering like a flame;