A star that shoots athwart star-steadfast heaven; A fluttering aigrette of toss'd passion's brine; A leaf from youth's immortal missal torn; A bark across dark seas of anguish driven; A feather dropp'd from breast-wings aquiline; A silvery dream shunning red lips of morn II There is no mood, no heart-throb fugitive, No spark from man's imperishable mind, No moment of man's will, that may not find Form in the Sonnet; and thenceforward live A potent elf, by art's imperative Magic to crystal spheres of song confin'd: As in the moonstone's orb pent spirits wind 'Mid dungeon depths day-beams they take and give. Spare thou no pains; carve thought's pure diamond With fourteen facets, scattering fire and light : Uncut, what jewel burns but darkly bright? And Prospero vainly waves his runic wand, If spurning art's inexorable law In Ariel's prison-sphere he leave one flaw. With what supports and feeds it ;- from afar It draws its life, but evermore inclin'd To leap into the flame that makes men blind Who seek the secret of all things that are. Such wert thou, Shelley, bound for airiest goal: Interpreter of quintessential things: Promethean fire for men to be as gods, MEMORIES My love he went to Burdon Fair, So he brought me marjoram smelling rare — My love he sail'd across the sea, Oh, the days I dote on yet, His mother sought for me anon; |