#bloom & the woodmen

[waleedgamil]

MOVIE : The Woodmen

watch full movie for free : https://bit.ly/3NJ0eKs

[nekohime19]

Mini Mac # 19 : Life under the mountain

Mac better Wukong's life under the mountain!

Macaque was building a hut out of leaves and twigs, arranging it near Wukong's stone pillar. Once he was satisfied with it he turned towards Wukong with a proud expression.

“What do you think?” He asked with a swaying tail.

“Cute.” Snorted the sage with softened eyes. Macaque chirped happily at the praise, he made sure his hut was sturdy before placing a blooming plum blossom on top, he liked the sight and the smell of them. Then, he sat on the floor and began to weave grass and flowers to create a comfortable nest. His fingers weaved with familiarity, flowing like the course of a river. He whispered a melody he heard on his way to the mountain as he worked on his nest. He wasn't very good at singing, but he was particularly joyous today, especially since he found Wukong after searching for so long. Once his nest was done, he placed it inside of the hut. There wasn't anything else in the narrow space, but Macaque believed he could furnitured it with time.

The black-furred monkey left his hut and climbed Wukong's stone pillar, he settled on the sage's shoulders and began to groom him, weaving flowers in his fur. He took time to pick the freshest, prettiest flowers each morning to weave them into the sage's fur. He knew Wukong was vain, in his own way, and he noticed how the golden-furred monkey was bitter about his state of appearances as of now. The mountain's dirt irked him greatly.

“You never sang that before.” Noticed Sun Wukong as he closed his eyes and enjoyed the grooming, he liked the scent of flowers, and it was great to feel pretty.

“I heard it on my way here, I think there is a house close to the mountain.” Replied Macaque as he tied a peach blossom to Wukong's ear.

“Really? That's surprising. I was sure there was no one here.” Sun Wukong giggled at the feel of the flower against his ear.

“Mmm, maybe I have to see.” Mumbled the black-furred monkey, once he was done grooming the sage he stayed on his shoulders a bit. He knew Wukong was greatly touch-starved, as such he always took the time to snuggle with him for a bit. He also liked to press himself in the crook of Wukong's neck, his warmth was always comforting. After an hour of snuggling, Macaque left Wukong's shoulders and prepared to leave. “I'll bring you peaches.”

“Thanks. Y-you… I lo… you're the best.” Macaque turned towards Wukong and smiled at the compliment, he waved at him before diving in the shadows and traveling outside of the mountain's bowels.

The forest surrounding the mountain was pretty lush, full of jumping rivers and fruits. Macaque couldn't carry much, his arms were small and his bags even smaller, but he tried to gather as much food as he could. He took water from the springs and put it in leaves and vials. He cut fruits with his claws and stuffed them in his bags. He rejoiced when he caught sight of peaches and tried to take as many as he could. He rolled a full peach in front of him, determined to bring it to the mountain's bowels for Wukong. In his path, he heard singing again. Curiosity nipped at him despite his cautiousness, he hid his peach in bushes and carefully followed the singing. A woodman was cutting trees not far from him, he sang each time his ax cut in the wood's flesh.

At first, Macaque wanted to flee. Giants were unpredictable. But then he wondered if this man could help him, mayhaps he could share blankets and pillows for Wukong. The black-furred monkey was swayed by the thought of comforting his only friend with silk and satin, he stepped out of the shadows and cleared his throat. The woodman startled and looked around, his eyes widened when they fell on him.

“W-what? What are you?” Mumbled the woodmen.

“A monkey ?” Awkwardly chuckled Macaque, he winced at his words, he was terrible at socializing.

“What do you want from me, fairy?” Asked the woodmen, Macaque raised an eyebrow at the nickname but he saw no use in correcting it.

“I… if you could share blankets and pillows with me…”

“Why would I do that?”

“I can… if you have fields I can… ask the winds to chase clouds or… or I can frighten the forest's beasts with shadows I…” Macaque didn't truly know what the man needed or what he wanted, but he hoped it would be enough to sway him. The woodmen regarded him for a moment before searching in his bag and handing a small blanket of linen.

“For now.” Added the woodmen, Macaque nodded gratefully and took the blanket, he then dived in the shadows, leaving the gaping men behind.

Macaque managed to bring back fruits, water and a full peach he dragged thanks to the linen blanket. When he entered the mountain's bowels, his ears flickered in discomfort, sounds he did not like echoed around him. Sounds of gargling and laughing. Macaque hurried and froze at what he saw. Two small men, covered in brown skirts, were forcing iron and metal in Wukong's throat. The black-furred monkey was still in horror for a second before letting out a shriek of anger. Both men stopped and turned towards the lil guy.

“Who are you? And what are you doing here? You shouldn't be here.” Scoffed one of the men, his hand resting on his hip. Macaque wanted to scream at him, to claw and bite, but he restrained himself.

“You are…?” Asked the lil guy.

“The prisoner's wardens. Unfortunately we have to move and feed the guy, a real chore.” Sighed the other men, Macaque now recognized them as earth lords, their potent smell a dead giveaway.

“Feed…” Repeated Macaque as he clenched his fists, his knuckles whitening in anger. But then he had an idea, mayhaps he could turn this to his advantage. “If you want to feed him, I can do it in your place.” He proposed, hoping the earth's lords would agree. They regarded him for a moment, considering his proposition.

“We could stop coming here.” Whispered the first earth lord.

“But what if Heaven learns of this?” Replied the other.

“Heaven doesn't have to know.” Retorted Macaque. The earth lords whispered among themselves for a few minutes before agreeing to Macaque and leaving. The black-furred monkey watched them leave the mountain's bowels with burning hatred, he then ran towards Wukong and climbed on his shoulders.

“A-are you alright? S-show me your tongue.” Stuttered Macaque, still shook by what he saw. Wukong averted his eyes in shame and kept his mouth closed. “Please.” Muttered Macaque as he put a hand on the sage's cheek, Wukong looked at him with watery eyes before shyly opening his mouth and exposing his burnt tongue and throat. Macaque gulped, he rushed to his bags to find medecine he packed for his travels, and carefully applied a soothing balm in the sage's mouth. Once he was done he tightly hugged the sage's cheek.

“I'm sorry I didn't tell you about… this.” Mumbled Wukong with a raspy voice.

“... Can you promise to tell me if things like this happen from now on?” Replied Macaque as he buried himself in Wukong's cheek, inhaling his scent.

“I… okay…” Replied the sage, he closed his eyes and turned his head, letting his snout brush against Macaque's head.

“I brought you a peach and water.” Sun Wukong laughed weakly at that.

“Thanks.” Whispered the sage.

Macaque nodded, he then took the peach and carefully fed his friend.

Ch1 / Previous / Next

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“Whilst flowery good, ’‘tis to protect me’)”

I might ascension, and Who?     Desire; and unnatures behind, that descending, I     want to glide past this, death’d

proposed; but the deep in the measure?     Whilst flowery good, tis to protect me. Friendship, which     bondage we wishing knees

three bonie laddie’s you keepe, which, that     his own bloom pale aspecting you That Springs that Tim’s other     and faint with crystal

month of day is grim head demon,     my eyes most fond immortals, and, being handwriting with     flower sing dark-cluster

of that woman is wont. Not appear’d     mistaking the wind: far, far Ku-to-yen, but when table     to light of Proserpine,

or stalks, there the fair Orithea,     know, the shy to the woodmen with her eyes twin splendour     pallor the spirit climb.

[firelaurel]

thistledown, my darling (makoharu flash bang 2018!)

Title: thistledown, my darling (on ao3 here)

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: None

Summary: “Such is the thrall of the fae, my son. I never so much as touched your father with a spell, and still on the very morning we met he swore his life to me.”  In which a half-mortal dryad prince meets a human boy.

I wrote this fic for the @makoharubigbang in collaboration with the wonderful @daikimine, who drew the breathtaking illustration! Find it over here <3

Long ago in the Forest Ailsa (or so the woodmen said) a blacksmith’s son had wandered far from his home in search of kindling for his father’s forge. He came when twigs and boughs alike were damp and green to the bark, and so he went further than he was obliged to do in autumn. It was thus that he came to the heart of the wood, and weary with his burden he lay against an aspen-tree and fell into heavy slumber.

In the village they never knew what befell him there, only that he did not return for many days, and when he did they found him greatly changed. He fled back into the forest whenever he had a morning to himself, vanishing for hours at a time before running back with his mouth turned up in a grin. His parents knew naught of his doings there, but the townsfolk guessed that he had run across some fey creature in the woods: a sprite in the shape of a woman, whom some of the villagers claimed to have seen in the trees by twilight.

At last the youth took his leave from the settlement and never returned again, gone to make his home in the green with whatever it was that so bespelled him. His family made nothing of his departure, and the townsfolk grew ever surer that he had met a faerie girl and taken her to wife―and by her had a son, quitting his kin to raise the child where it might be protected. It was true, if they had but known it; but by and by the boy was wholly forgotten, and now a bustling city stood where his settlement used to lie. But the forest was hale and living still, and so was the halfblood fairy-child in the thriving heart of the wood.

His mother called him Haruka, for the sweet breath of spring on the day she first laid eyes on his father. He had his father’s hair, thick and black like water by night, and his eyes were his mother’s: sweet and fair and blue as the heavens from the centuries he had passed beneath them. When he grew to manhood he found his human shape better suited for his power, and so he took the form of a mortal boy. None of his amai’s folk could follow in his footsteps, and so Haru was left to himself with birds and beasts for company. They spoke to him as they would to their own, but he took his greatest happiness healing the aged trees of their hurts whenever they called for aid.

At first he had gone through the forest unclothed, but at his mother’s urging he fashioned himself a shift from a bed of fallen oak-leaves. It covered him now from knees to shoulders, bound by a belt of blackberry brambles stripped of their needling thorns; his mother had laughed at the sight of it, certain that he would bewitch any maiden who happened to cross his path. But pleasing though he was to look upon no maiden had caught his eye; he wore his tresses loose and unbound to see them tangle in the breeze, and not to pay court to the dryad-girls whose friendship he held so dear. Of late his apai’s human blood had grown ever stronger in his limbs, and now he thought if love should come it might return him to the bustling realm his father once called home.

But beyond the Forest Ailsa the world of men was changed, and it was this that startled Haru so when he found himself drawn out to the edge of the wood one night, for his mother’s dryads stood watch by the cedars there and kept them green and firm. As he looked about he found nothing amiss, and yet the fragrance of wounded leaves beckoned him down the gully to the sparkling city below.

“Do you wish to go out, Haru-chan?”

He turned and saw a slender osier fanning her limbs in the wind, laughing as he pointed to a little house that glowed from within like the moon. Mortals could not see in the dark, or so his father had said, and since his apai’s death Haru had dearly missed the warm golden light he made with sticks in the underbrush to ease his work in the evenings.

“Go, then,” smiled the osier, lifting the veil to let him slip out beneath it. For a while he stood and wondered at the scent of the late spring air, finding it sharper than what he was used to in the wood, but then he rose and made his way to the cottage he saw from the Ailsa’s border. Though the air was chill he felt nothing, and careless of the breeze on his arms he walked down the lane until he came to a garden filled with roses growing unchecked and ivy lining the walls.

“You do not need my care, I think,” he chuckled, kissing a crimson bloom as he passed. “Where am I called for, then?”

The rose directed him to the nearest window, where the sun-colored warmth lay fair and unfaltering before a pane of glass. Set against the sill was a row of earthen pots, painted in cheery colors by a careful and loving hand; some bore the portraits of stars and planets, while others were pink and scarlet like a cherry tree in blossom.

“Mortals keep seedlings indoors,” laughed Haru, pressing his nose to the window-frame. “How funny! I have never seen shrubs like these, with thorns on their petals and silken-smooth at the stems. They are black, too―are they meant to be so?”

Foolish little halfling, said the ivy kindly. Our keeper minds us faithfully, but for the life of him he cannot manage those plants within. They come from a barren wasteland, and he waters them far too often to keep them well.

“How curious,” he mused, standing on his toes to undo the latch. Once it was open he pushed back the glass and passed his gaze from wall to wall, searching the place for flowers until―

“Oh,” he gasped, clutching at his breast as he glimpsed a bed draped in white. Upon it a boy lay slumbering with his long hands folded on his chest, breathing at ease as he dreamed like a child in its mother’s arms. His skin was the hue of light made solid, as if it were colored by the fiery lamp or by the heavens at sunrise, and the locks on his head were the color of rain-damp sand: soft and brown like sugarcane made into drinking-syrup. At the sight of him a ruddy flush crept into Haru’s neck, and forgetting the plants entirely he pulled himself nearer to brush the gentle face. The young man woke at the touch and smiled, unveiling a pair of eyes as fair as any fae’s; it seemed he still thought himself sleeping, for he did not move at all as Haru slipped away and passed his hands over the shrubs near the windowsill. They flushed and brightened at once, and finished with his work the half-dryad fell back to the grass below. At the sound of the ivy’s snorting he turned and fled like the wind, only daring to look back when he came to the lane by the gate. The boy had risen from his bed, and now he sat staring into the night with a puzzled frown on his brow. He bent down and looked at his desert-plants renewed, breaking the hush with a cry of joy as he saw them living again.

“Thank you,” he called, leaning out over the open frame with his emerald eyes alight. At the sound of his voice Haru stilled and pressed his lips together, fighting a sudden smile as the lad withdrew and shut the window behind him.

But eager though he was to depart Haruka saw that the pane had been left unlatched as if to give him the promise that it would remain so, and as he flew back to the Ailsa he thought of the name he had read in the mortal’s dreams and the laughing roses in the garden. It was a goodly name, he thought, and fitting for one who loved all things fresh and growing though he had no power of his own. Truth, the ivy had called him, and cradling the word between his palms like a lily’s bud he lifted the forest veil and vanished back into the gloom. In the city below Truth’s cottage was lighted still, though nothing this side of the wood could sway the half-faerie to forget where it lay. Perhaps some night the plants by the window would call to Haru again, and perhaps when he returned Truth would wish to see him.

With that he smiled and went to lie beneath his mother’s aspen-tree, taking his rest in a starlit vision of roses and leaf-green laughter.

[a-mutual-killing]

hunker down, boys - she’s fifty five spenserian stanzas of shelley mourning keats in the most absurd english way and i’m fucking screaming. someone come put me out of my misery before i have enough time to think about the social masochism behind shelley inviting an ill keats to italy. 

I       I weep for Adonais—he is dead!       Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tears       Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!       And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years       To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,       And teach them thine own sorrow, say: "With me       Died Adonais; till the Future dares       Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity!"

II       Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,       When thy Son lay, pierc'd by the shaft which flies       In darkness? where was lorn Urania       When Adonais died? With veiled eyes,       'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise       She sate, while one, with soft enamour'd breath,       Rekindled all the fading melodies,       With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath, He had adorn'd and hid the coming bulk of Death.

III       Oh, weep for Adonais—he is dead!       Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!       Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed       Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep       Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep;       For he is gone, where all things wise and fair       Descend—oh, dream not that the amorous Deep       Will yet restore him to the vital air; Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.

IV       Most musical of mourners, weep again!       Lament anew, Urania! He died,       Who was the Sire of an immortal strain,       Blind, old and lonely, when his country's pride,       The priest, the slave and the liberticide,       Trampled and mock'd with many a loathed rite       Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified,       Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light.

V       Most musical of mourners, weep anew!       Not all to that bright station dar'd to climb;       And happier they their happiness who knew,       Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time       In which suns perish'd; others more sublime,       Struck by the envious wrath of man or god,       Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime;       And some yet live, treading the thorny road, Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode.

VI       But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perish'd,       The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew,       Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherish'd,       And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew;       Most musical of mourners, weep anew!       Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last,       The bloom, whose petals nipp'd before they blew       Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste; The broken lily lies—the storm is overpast.

VII       To that high Capital, where kingly Death       Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay,       He came; and bought, with price of purest breath,       A grave among the eternal.—Come away!       Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day       Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still       He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay;       Awake him not! surely he takes his fill Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.

VIII       He will awake no more, oh, never more!       Within the twilight chamber spreads apace       The shadow of white Death, and at the door       Invisible Corruption waits to trace       His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place;       The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe       Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface       So fair a prey, till darkness and the law Of change shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain draw.

IX       Oh, weep for Adonais! The quick Dreams,       The passion-winged Ministers of thought,       Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams       Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught       The love which was its music, wander not—       Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain,       But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot       Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain, They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home again.

X       And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head,       And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries,       "Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead;       See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes,       Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies       A tear some Dream has loosen'd from his brain."       Lost Angel of a ruin'd Paradise!       She knew not 'twas her own; as with no stain She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain.

XI       One from a lucid urn of starry dew       Wash'd his light limbs as if embalming them;       Another clipp'd her profuse locks, and threw       The wreath upon him, like an anadem,       Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem;       Another in her wilful grief would break       Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem       A greater loss with one which was more weak; And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek.

XII       Another Splendour on his mouth alit,       That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath       Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit,       And pass into the panting heart beneath       With lightning and with music: the damp death       Quench'd its caress upon his icy lips;       And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath       Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips, It flush'd through his pale limbs, and pass'd to its eclipse.

XIII       And others came . . . Desires and Adorations,       Winged Persuasions and veil'd Destinies,       Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations       Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies;       And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs,       And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam       Of her own dying smile instead of eyes,       Came in slow pomp; the moving pomp might seem Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream.

XIV       All he had lov'd, and moulded into thought,       From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound,       Lamented Adonais. Morning sought       Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound,       Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,       Dimm'd the aëreal eyes that kindle day;       Afar the melancholy thunder moan'd,       Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, And the wild Winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay.

XV       Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,       And feeds her grief with his remember'd lay,       And will no more reply to winds or fountains,       Or amorous birds perch'd on the young green spray,       Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day;       Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear       Than those for whose disdain she pin'd away       Into a shadow of all sounds: a drear Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear.

XVI       Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down       Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were,       Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown,       For whom should she have wak'd the sullen year?       To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear       Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both       Thou, Adonais: wan they stand and sere       Amid the faint companions of their youth, With dew all turn'd to tears; odour, to sighing ruth.

XVII       Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale       Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain;       Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale       Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain       Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain,       Soaring and screaming round her empty nest,       As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain       Light on his head who pierc'd thy innocent breast, And scar'd the angel soul that was its earthly guest!

XVIII       Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone,       But grief returns with the revolving year;       The airs and streams renew their joyous tone;       The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear;       Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Seasons' bier;       The amorous birds now pair in every brake,       And build their mossy homes in field and brere;       And the green lizard, and the golden snake, Like unimprison'd flames, out of their trance awake.

XIX       Through wood and stream and field and hill and Ocean       A quickening life from the Earth's heart has burst       As it has ever done, with change and motion,       From the great morning of the world when first       God dawn'd on Chaos; in its stream immers'd,       The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light;       All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst;       Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delight, The beauty and the joy of their renewed might.

XX       The leprous corpse, touch'd by this spirit tender,       Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath;       Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour       Is chang'd to fragrance, they illumine death       And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath;       Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows       Be as a sword consum'd before the sheath       By sightless lightning?—the intense atom glows A moment, then is quench'd in a most cold repose.

XXI       Alas! that all we lov'd of him should be,       But for our grief, as if it had not been,       And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me!       Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene       The actors or spectators? Great and mean       Meet mass'd in death, who lends what life must borrow.       As long as skies are blue, and fields are green,       Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow, Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow.

XXII       He will awake no more, oh, never more!       "Wake thou," cried Misery, "childless Mother, rise       Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's core,       A wound more fierce than his, with tears and sighs."       And all the Dreams that watch'd Urania's eyes,       And all the Echoes whom their sister's song       Had held in holy silence, cried: "Arise!"       Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung, From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprung.

XXIII       She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs       Out of the East, and follows wild and drear       The golden Day, which, on eternal wings,       Even as a ghost abandoning a bier,       Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear       So struck, so rous'd, so rapt Urania;       So sadden'd round her like an atmosphere       Of stormy mist; so swept her on her way Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay.

XXIV       Out of her secret Paradise she sped,       Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel,       And human hearts, which to her aery tread       Yielding not, wounded the invisible       Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell:       And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they,       Rent the soft Form they never could repel,       Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May, Pav'd with eternal flowers that undeserving way.

XXV       In the death-chamber for a moment Death,       Sham'd by the presence of that living Might,       Blush'd to annihilation, and the breath       Revisited those lips, and Life's pale light       Flash'd through those limbs, so late her dear delight.       "Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless,       As silent lightning leaves the starless night!       Leave me not!" cried Urania: her distress Rous'd Death: Death rose and smil'd, and met her vain caress.

XXVI       "Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again;       Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live;       And in my heartless breast and burning brain       That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else survive,       With food of saddest memory kept alive,       Now thou art dead, as if it were a part       Of thee, my Adonais! I would give       All that I am to be as thou now art! But I am chain'd to Time, and cannot thence depart!

XXVII       "O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert,       Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men       Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart       Dare the unpastur'd dragon in his den?       Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was then       Wisdom the mirror'd shield, or scorn the spear?       Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when       Thy spirit should have fill'd its crescent sphere, The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee like deer.

XXVIII       "The herded wolves, bold only to pursue;       The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead;       The vultures to the conqueror's banner true       Who feed where Desolation first has fed,       And whose wings rain contagion; how they fled,       When, like Apollo, from his golden bow       The Pythian of the age one arrow sped       And smil'd! The spoilers tempt no second blow, They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low.

XXIX       "The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn;       He sets, and each ephemeral insect then       Is gather'd into death without a dawn,       And the immortal stars awake again;       So is it in the world of living men:       A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight       Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when       It sinks, the swarms that dimm'd or shar'd its light Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's awful night."

XXX       Thus ceas'd she: and the mountain shepherds came,       Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent;       The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame       Over his living head like Heaven is bent,       An early but enduring monument,       Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song       In sorrow; from her wilds Ierne sent       The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, And Love taught Grief to fall like music from his tongue.

XXXI       Midst others of less note, came one frail Form,       A phantom among men; companionless       As the last cloud of an expiring storm       Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,       Had gaz'd on Nature's naked loveliness,       Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray       With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness,       And his own thoughts, along that rugged way, Pursu'd, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.

XXXII       A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift—       A Love in desolation mask'd—a Power       Girt round with weakness—it can scarce uplift       The weight of the superincumbent hour;       It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,       A breaking billow; even whilst we speak       Is it not broken? On the withering flower       The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break.

XXXIII       His head was bound with pansies overblown,       And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue;       And a light spear topp'd with a cypress cone,       Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew       Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew,       Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart       Shook the weak hand that grasp'd it; of that crew       He came the last, neglected and apart; A herd-abandon'd deer struck by the hunter's dart.

XXXIV       All stood aloof, and at his partial moan       Smil'd through their tears; well knew that gentle band       Who in another's fate now wept his own,       As in the accents of an unknown land       He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scann'd       The Stranger's mien, and murmur'd: "Who art thou?"       He answer'd not, but with a sudden hand       Made bare his branded and ensanguin'd brow, Which was like Cain's or Christ's—oh! that it should be so!

XXXV       What softer voice is hush'd over the dead?       Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown?       What form leans sadly o'er the white death-bed,       In mockery of monumental stone,       The heavy heart heaving without a moan?       If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise,       Taught, sooth'd, lov'd, honour'd the departed one,       Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs, The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice.

XXXVI       Our Adonais has drunk poison—oh!       What deaf and viperous murderer could crown       Life's early cup with such a draught of woe?       The nameless worm would now itself disown:       It felt, yet could escape, the magic tone       Whose prelude held all envy, hate and wrong,       But what was howling in one breast alone,       Silent with expectation of the song, Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.

XXXVII       Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame!       Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me,       Thou noteless blot on a remember'd name!       But be thyself, and know thyself to be!       And ever at thy season be thou free       To spill the venom when thy fangs o'erflow;       Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee;       Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt—as now.

XXXVIII       Nor let us weep that our delight is fled       Far from these carrion kites that scream below;       He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead;       Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now.       Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow       Back to the burning fountain whence it came,       A portion of the Eternal, which must glow       Through time and change, unquenchably the same, Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame.

XXXIX       Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep,       He hath awaken'd from the dream of life;       'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep       With phantoms an unprofitable strife,       And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's knife       Invulnerable nothings. We decay       Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief       Convulse us and consume us day by day, And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.

XL       He has outsoar'd the shadow of our night;       Envy and calumny and hate and pain,       And that unrest which men miscall delight,       Can touch him not and torture not again;       From the contagion of the world's slow stain       He is secure, and now can never mourn       A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain;       Nor, when the spirit's self has ceas'd to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.

XLI       He lives, he wakes—'tis Death is dead, not he;       Mourn not for Adonais. Thou young Dawn,       Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee       The spirit thou lamentest is not gone;       Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan!       Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air,       Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown       O'er the abandon'd Earth, now leave it bare Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair!

XLII       He is made one with Nature: there is heard       His voice in all her music, from the moan       Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird;       He is a presence to be felt and known       In darkness and in light, from herb and stone,       Spreading itself where'er that Power may move       Which has withdrawn his being to its own;       Which wields the world with never-wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.

XLIII       He is a portion of the loveliness       Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear       His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress       Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there       All new successions to the forms they wear;       Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flight       To its own likeness, as each mass may bear;       And bursting in its beauty and its might From trees and beasts and men into the Heaven's light.

XLIV       The splendours of the firmament of time       May be eclips'd, but are extinguish'd not;       Like stars to their appointed height they climb,       And death is a low mist which cannot blot       The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought       Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair,       And love and life contend in it for what       Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air.

XLV       The inheritors of unfulfill'd renown       Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought,       Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton       Rose pale, his solemn agony had not       Yet faded from him; Sidney, as he fought       And as he fell and as he liv'd and lov'd       Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot,       Arose; and Lucan, by his death approv'd: Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reprov'd.

XLVI       And many more, whose names on Earth are dark,       But whose transmitted effluence cannot die       So long as fire outlives the parent spark,       Rose, rob'd in dazzling immortality.       "Thou art become as one of us," they cry,       "It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long       Swung blind in unascended majesty,       Silent alone amid a Heaven of Song. Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our throng!"

XLVII       Who mourns for Adonais? Oh, come forth,       Fond wretch! and know thyself and him aright.       Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth;       As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light       Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might       Satiate the void circumference: then shrink       Even to a point within our day and night;       And keep thy heart light lest it make thee sink When hope has kindled hope, and lur'd thee to the brink.

XLVIII       Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre,       Oh, not of him, but of our joy: 'tis nought       That ages, empires and religions there       Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought;       For such as he can lend—they borrow not       Glory from those who made the world their prey;       And he is gather'd to the kings of thought       Who wag'd contention with their time's decay, And of the past are all that cannot pass away.

XLIX       Go thou to Rome—at once the Paradise,       The grave, the city, and the wilderness;       And where its wrecks like shatter'd mountains rise,       And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dress       The bones of Desolation's nakedness       Pass, till the spirit of the spot shall lead       Thy footsteps to a slope of green access       Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread;

L       And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time       Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand;       And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime,       Pavilioning the dust of him who plann'd       This refuge for his memory, doth stand       Like flame transform'd to marble; and beneath,       A field is spread, on which a newer band       Have pitch'd in Heaven's smile their camp of death, Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguish'd breath.

LI       Here pause: these graves are all too young as yet       To have outgrown the sorrow which consign'd       Its charge to each; and if the seal is set,       Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind,       Break it not thou! too surely shalt thou find       Thine own well full, if thou returnest home,       Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind       Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. What Adonais is, why fear we to become?

LII       The One remains, the many change and pass;       Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly;       Life, like a dome of many-colour'd glass,       Stains the white radiance of Eternity,       Until Death tramples it to fragments.—Die,       If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek!       Follow where all is fled!—Rome's azure sky,       Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak.

LIII       Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart?       Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here       They have departed; thou shouldst now depart!       A light is pass'd from the revolving year,       And man, and woman; and what still is dear       Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither.       The soft sky smiles, the low wind whispers near:       'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither, No more let Life divide what Death can join together.

LIV       That Light whose smile kindles the Universe,       That Beauty in which all things work and move,       That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse       Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love       Which through the web of being blindly wove       By man and beast and earth and air and sea,       Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of       The fire for which all thirst; now beams on me, Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality.

LV       The breath whose might I have invok'd in song       Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven,       Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng       Whose sails were never to the tempest given;       The massy earth and sphered skies are riven!       I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar;       Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of Heaven,       The soul of Adonais, like a star, Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.

—Percy Bysshe Shelley, Adonaïs: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats

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‘’Adonais: An Elegy on the Death of John Keats’’ By Percy Shelley ,  (1792-1822)

I       I weep for Adonais—he is dead!       Oh, weep for Adonais! though our tears       Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!       And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years       To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,       And teach them thine own sorrow, say: "With me       Died Adonais; till the Future dares       Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be An echo and a light unto eternity!" II       Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,       When thy Son lay, pierc'd by the shaft which flies       In darkness? where was lorn Urania       When Adonais died? With veiled eyes,       'Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise       She sate, while one, with soft enamour'd breath,       Rekindled all the fading melodies,       With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath, He had adorn'd and hid the coming bulk of Death. III       Oh, weep for Adonais—he is dead!       Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!       Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed       Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep       Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep;       For he is gone, where all things wise and fair       Descend—oh, dream not that the amorous Deep       Will yet restore him to the vital air; Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair. IV       Most musical of mourners, weep again!       Lament anew, Urania! He died,       Who was the Sire of an immortal strain,       Blind, old and lonely, when his country's pride,       The priest, the slave and the liberticide,       Trampled and mock'd with many a loathed rite       Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified,       Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite Yet reigns o'er earth; the third among the sons of light. V       Most musical of mourners, weep anew!       Not all to that bright station dar'd to climb;       And happier they their happiness who knew,       Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time       In which suns perish'd; others more sublime,       Struck by the envious wrath of man or god,       Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime;       And some yet live, treading the thorny road, Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame's serene abode. VI       But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perish'd,       The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew,       Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherish'd,       And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew;       Most musical of mourners, weep anew!       Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last,       The bloom, whose petals nipp'd before they blew       Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste; The broken lily lies—the storm is overpast. VII       To that high Capital, where kingly Death       Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay,       He came; and bought, with price of purest breath,       A grave among the eternal.—Come away!       Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day       Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still       He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay;       Awake him not! surely he takes his fill Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill. VIII       He will awake no more, oh, never more!       Within the twilight chamber spreads apace       The shadow of white Death, and at the door       Invisible Corruption waits to trace       His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place;       The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe       Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface       So fair a prey, till darkness and the law Of change shall o'er his sleep the mortal curtain draw. IX       Oh, weep for Adonais! The quick Dreams,       The passion-winged Ministers of thought,       Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams       Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught       The love which was its music, wander not—       Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain,       But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot       Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain, They ne'er will gather strength, or find a home again. X       And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head,       And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries,       "Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead;       See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes,       Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies       A tear some Dream has loosen'd from his brain."       Lost Angel of a ruin'd Paradise!       She knew not 'twas her own; as with no stain She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain. XI       One from a lucid urn of starry dew       Wash'd his light limbs as if embalming them;       Another clipp'd her profuse locks, and threw       The wreath upon him, like an anadem,       Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem;       Another in her wilful grief would break       Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem       A greater loss with one which was more weak; And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek. XII       Another Splendour on his mouth alit,       That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath       Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit,       And pass into the panting heart beneath       With lightning and with music: the damp death       Quench'd its caress upon his icy lips;       And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath       Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips, It flush'd through his pale limbs, and pass'd to its eclipse. XIII       And others came . . . Desires and Adorations,       Winged Persuasions and veil'd Destinies,       Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations       Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies;       And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs,       And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam       Of her own dying smile instead of eyes,       Came in slow pomp; the moving pomp might seem Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream. XIV       All he had lov'd, and moulded into thought,       From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound,       Lamented Adonais. Morning sought       Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound,       Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,       Dimm'd the aëreal eyes that kindle day;       Afar the melancholy thunder moan'd,       Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay, And the wild Winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay. XV       Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,       And feeds her grief with his remember'd lay,       And will no more reply to winds or fountains,       Or amorous birds perch'd on the young green spray,       Or herdsman's horn, or bell at closing day;       Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear       Than those for whose disdain she pin'd away       Into a shadow of all sounds: a drear Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear. XVI       Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down       Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were,       Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown,       For whom should she have wak'd the sullen year?       To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear       Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both       Thou, Adonais: wan they stand and sere       Amid the faint companions of their youth, With dew all turn'd to tears; odour, to sighing ruth. XVII       Thy spirit's sister, the lorn nightingale       Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain;       Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale       Heaven, and could nourish in the sun's domain       Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain,       Soaring and screaming round her empty nest,       As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain       Light on his head who pierc'd thy innocent breast, And scar'd the angel soul that was its earthly guest! XVIII       Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone,       But grief returns with the revolving year;       The airs and streams renew their joyous tone;       The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear;       Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Seasons' bier;       The amorous birds now pair in every brake,       And build their mossy homes in field and brere;       And the green lizard, and the golden snake, Like unimprison'd flames, out of their trance awake. XIX       Through wood and stream and field and hill and Ocean       A quickening life from the Earth's heart has burst       As it has ever done, with change and motion,       From the great morning of the world when first       God dawn'd on Chaos; in its stream immers'd,       The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light;       All baser things pant with life's sacred thirst;       Diffuse themselves; and spend in love's delight, The beauty and the joy of their renewed might. XX       The leprous corpse, touch'd by this spirit tender,       Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath;       Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour       Is chang'd to fragrance, they illumine death       And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath;       Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows       Be as a sword consum'd before the sheath       By sightless lightning?—the intense atom glows A moment, then is quench'd in a most cold repose. XXI       Alas! that all we lov'd of him should be,       But for our grief, as if it had not been,       And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me!       Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene       The actors or spectators? Great and mean       Meet mass'd in death, who lends what life must borrow.       As long as skies are blue, and fields are green,       Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow, Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow. XXII       He will awake no more, oh, never more!       "Wake thou," cried Misery, "childless Mother, rise       Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart's core,       A wound more fierce than his, with tears and sighs."       And all the Dreams that watch'd Urania's eyes,       And all the Echoes whom their sister's song       Had held in holy silence, cried: "Arise!"       Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung, From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprung. XXIII       She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs       Out of the East, and follows wild and drear       The golden Day, which, on eternal wings,       Even as a ghost abandoning a bier,       Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear       So struck, so rous'd, so rapt Urania;       So sadden'd round her like an atmosphere       Of stormy mist; so swept her on her way Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay. XXIV       Out of her secret Paradise she sped,       Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel,       And human hearts, which to her aery tread       Yielding not, wounded the invisible       Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell:       And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they,       Rent the soft Form they never could repel,       Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May, Pav'd with eternal flowers that undeserving way. XXV       In the death-chamber for a moment Death,       Sham'd by the presence of that living Might,       Blush'd to annihilation, and the breath       Revisited those lips, and Life's pale light       Flash'd through those limbs, so late her dear delight.       "Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless,       As silent lightning leaves the starless night!       Leave me not!" cried Urania: her distress Rous'd Death: Death rose and smil'd, and met her vain caress. XXVI       "Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again;       Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live;       And in my heartless breast and burning brain       That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else survive,       With food of saddest memory kept alive,       Now thou art dead, as if it were a part       Of thee, my Adonais! I would give       All that I am to be as thou now art! But I am chain'd to Time, and cannot thence depart! XXVII       "O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert,       Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men       Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart       Dare the unpastur'd dragon in his den?       Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was then       Wisdom the mirror'd shield, or scorn the spear?       Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when       Thy spirit should have fill'd its crescent sphere, The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee like deer. XXVIII       "The herded wolves, bold only to pursue;       The obscene ravens, clamorous o'er the dead;       The vultures to the conqueror's banner true       Who feed where Desolation first has fed,       And whose wings rain contagion; how they fled,       When, like Apollo, from his golden bow       The Pythian of the age one arrow sped       And smil'd! The spoilers tempt no second blow, They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low. XXIX       "The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn;       He sets, and each ephemeral insect then       Is gather'd into death without a dawn,       And the immortal stars awake again;       So is it in the world of living men:       A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight       Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when       It sinks, the swarms that dimm'd or shar'd its light Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit's awful night." XXX       Thus ceas'd she: and the mountain shepherds came,       Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent;       The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame       Over his living head like Heaven is bent,       An early but enduring monument,       Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song       In sorrow; from her wilds Ierne sent       The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, And Love taught Grief to fall like music from his tongue. XXXI       Midst others of less note, came one frail Form,       A phantom among men; companionless       As the last cloud of an expiring storm       Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,       Had gaz'd on Nature's naked loveliness,       Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray       With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness,       And his own thoughts, along that rugged way, Pursu'd, like raging hounds, their father and their prey. XXXII       A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift—       A Love in desolation mask'd—a Power       Girt round with weakness—it can scarce uplift       The weight of the superincumbent hour;       It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,       A breaking billow; even whilst we speak       Is it not broken? On the withering flower       The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break. XXXIII       His head was bound with pansies overblown,       And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue;       And a light spear topp'd with a cypress cone,       Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew       Yet dripping with the forest's noonday dew,       Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart       Shook the weak hand that grasp'd it; of that crew       He came the last, neglected and apart; A herd-abandon'd deer struck by the hunter's dart. XXXIV       All stood aloof, and at his partial moan       Smil'd through their tears; well knew that gentle band       Who in another's fate now wept his own,       As in the accents of an unknown land       He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scann'd       The Stranger's mien, and murmur'd: "Who art thou?"       He answer'd not, but with a sudden hand       Made bare his branded and ensanguin'd brow, Which was like Cain's or Christ's—oh! that it should be so! XXXV       What softer voice is hush'd over the dead?       Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown?       What form leans sadly o'er the white death-bed,       In mockery of monumental stone,       The heavy heart heaving without a moan?       If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise,       Taught, sooth'd, lov'd, honour'd the departed one,       Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs, The silence of that heart's accepted sacrifice. XXXVI       Our Adonais has drunk poison—oh!       What deaf and viperous murderer could crown       Life's early cup with such a draught of woe?       The nameless worm would now itself disown:       It felt, yet could escape, the magic tone       Whose prelude held all envy, hate and wrong,       But what was howling in one breast alone,       Silent with expectation of the song, Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung. XXXVII       Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame!       Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me,       Thou noteless blot on a remember'd name!       But be thyself, and know thyself to be!       And ever at thy season be thou free       To spill the venom when thy fangs o'erflow;       Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee;       Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow, And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt—as now. XXXVIII       Nor let us weep that our delight is fled       Far from these carrion kites that scream below;       He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead;       Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now.       Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow       Back to the burning fountain whence it came,       A portion of the Eternal, which must glow       Through time and change, unquenchably the same, Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame. XXXIX       Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep,       He hath awaken'd from the dream of life;       'Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep       With phantoms an unprofitable strife,       And in mad trance, strike with our spirit's knife       Invulnerable nothings. We decay       Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief       Convulse us and consume us day by day, And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay. XL       He has outsoar'd the shadow of our night;       Envy and calumny and hate and pain,       And that unrest which men miscall delight,       Can touch him not and torture not again;       From the contagion of the world's slow stain       He is secure, and now can never mourn       A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain;       Nor, when the spirit's self has ceas'd to burn, With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn. XLI       He lives, he wakes—'tis Death is dead, not he;       Mourn not for Adonais. Thou young Dawn,       Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee       The spirit thou lamentest is not gone;       Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan!       Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air,       Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown       O'er the abandon'd Earth, now leave it bare Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair! XLII       He is made one with Nature: there is heard       His voice in all her music, from the moan       Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird;       He is a presence to be felt and known       In darkness and in light, from herb and stone,       Spreading itself where'er that Power may move       Which has withdrawn his being to its own;       Which wields the world with never-wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above. XLIII       He is a portion of the loveliness       Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear       His part, while the one Spirit's plastic stress       Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there       All new successions to the forms they wear;       Torturing th' unwilling dross that checks its flight       To its own likeness, as each mass may bear;       And bursting in its beauty and its might From trees and beasts and men into the Heaven's light. XLIV       The splendours of the firmament of time       May be eclips'd, but are extinguish'd not;       Like stars to their appointed height they climb,       And death is a low mist which cannot blot       The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought       Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair,       And love and life contend in it for what       Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air. XLV       The inheritors of unfulfill'd renown       Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought,       Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton       Rose pale, his solemn agony had not       Yet faded from him; Sidney, as he fought       And as he fell and as he liv'd and lov'd       Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot,       Arose; and Lucan, by his death approv'd: Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reprov'd. XLVI       And many more, whose names on Earth are dark,       But whose transmitted effluence cannot die       So long as fire outlives the parent spark,       Rose, rob'd in dazzling immortality.       "Thou art become as one of us," they cry,       "It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long       Swung blind in unascended majesty,       Silent alone amid a Heaven of Song. Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our throng!" XLVII       Who mourns for Adonais? Oh, come forth,       Fond wretch! and know thyself and him aright.       Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth;       As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light       Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might       Satiate the void circumference: then shrink       Even to a point within our day and night;       And keep thy heart light lest it make thee sink When hope has kindled hope, and lur'd thee to the brink. XLVIII       Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre,       Oh, not of him, but of our joy: 'tis nought       That ages, empires and religions there       Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought;       For such as he can lend—they borrow not       Glory from those who made the world their prey;       And he is gather'd to the kings of thought       Who wag'd contention with their time's decay, And of the past are all that cannot pass away. XLIX       Go thou to Rome—at once the Paradise,       The grave, the city, and the wilderness;       And where its wrecks like shatter'd mountains rise,       And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dress       The bones of Desolation's nakedness       Pass, till the spirit of the spot shall lead       Thy footsteps to a slope of green access       Where, like an infant's smile, over the dead A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread; L       And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time       Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand;       And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime,       Pavilioning the dust of him who plann'd       This refuge for his memory, doth stand       Like flame transform'd to marble; and beneath,       A field is spread, on which a newer band       Have pitch'd in Heaven's smile their camp of death, Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguish'd breath. LI       Here pause: these graves are all too young as yet       To have outgrown the sorrow which consign'd       Its charge to each; and if the seal is set,       Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind,       Break it not thou! too surely shalt thou find       Thine own well full, if thou returnest home,       Of tears and gall. From the world's bitter wind       Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb. What Adonais is, why fear we to become? LII       The One remains, the many change and pass;       Heaven's light forever shines, Earth's shadows fly;       Life, like a dome of many-colour'd glass,       Stains the white radiance of Eternity,       Until Death tramples it to fragments.—Die,       If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek!       Follow where all is fled!—Rome's azure sky,       Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak. LIII       Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart?       Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here       They have departed; thou shouldst now depart!       A light is pass'd from the revolving year,       And man, and woman; and what still is dear       Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither.       The soft sky smiles, the low wind whispers near:       'Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither, No more let Life divide what Death can join together. LIV       That Light whose smile kindles the Universe,       That Beauty in which all things work and move,       That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse       Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love       Which through the web of being blindly wove       By man and beast and earth and air and sea,       Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of       The fire for which all thirst; now beams on me, Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality. LV       The breath whose might I have invok'd in song       Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven,       Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng       Whose sails were never to the tempest given;       The massy earth and sphered skies are riven!       I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar;       Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of Heaven,       The soul of Adonais, like a star, Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.

[libidomechanica]

Untitled (“Yet somewhat more hath wrought”)

Yet somewhat more hath wrought; thine own brother, as he  rode, I weep my past offence, now think of his upon the  grosse. The Lady Adeline Amundeville  and Lady Marys blooming flats. That close enough  to its brink, and sparkle languish, trust me, Ill 

not let the face hint, that the sun. Even when  the crack in the stream and all  these worms. Proscribed from afar— what could there were to  pass their fate: no novels eer had dwelt among the last  sight of beauty and the sound grows dull, and 

shivered, as if she had some not easy to  withstand could stown a clue wi ony body: he had done and  arc, spheroid and azimuth, and she me caught her—  shed rather than a cycle of Cathay. Then  playnely to you here this sweet lips, soft hand, 

asleep, when she saw the haggard with  a voice that is every star is  blotted by this, or was it chills. Spent wi thee;  ill come on its water-flower that clings to  Paracletes white ass pumping in the window 

and saw my white bed; lie, fisted like a lion  near a source of woe, this is the blissful vision  each sense of mourners, weep anew! He lookd a  white v-neck t-shirt on you: two cotton strips racing  to a point to point: slowly charged; and 

as a servant some part! she saw the helpless caravan;  yet could them up: Which were, or  passd lifes waste had fled from afar— as long ygoe? I go to  mine own brothers welcome guest, what courtesy calls  friends: The good, slanders mark was ever yet 

the chase, so animated than  the one good body, tell me how I do, whose husband  is, the woods; now clear, now blue, according to  joy, although I feel like Alexis smokes, the same; serenely  by the low rosed moon, the 

great master feareth but nothing like a music, whether  or not we find open Door. With kisse; each  trifle under the hills, and fragrant gloom of foreigner  of high condition. Revision  and some yet live, because that 

riots, and roll the woodmen hear. I have wakd  the savage race; and tradesmen, with elation  you will not be vain, advances  virtue proper, or good education; and  forgot, a pretty lad, but serene abode.