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For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils. 1804. 1807.

William Wordsworth.

24

THE TIGER

TIGER, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

4

In what distant deeps or skies
Burnt the fire of thine eyes?
On what wings dare he aspire ?
What the hand dare seize the fire ?

8

And what shoulder and what art
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And, when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand and what dread feet?

12

What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain ?
What the anvil? What dread grasp
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

16

To Night
When the stars threw down their spears,
And water'd heaven with their tears,
Did He smile His work to see?
Did He who made the lamb make thee?

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Tiger, tiger, burning bright
In the forests of the night,
What immortal hand or eye

Dare frame thy fearful symmetry? 1794.

William Blake.

24

TO NIGHT

SWIFTLY walk over the western wave,

Spirit of Night!
Out of the misty eastern cave
Where all the long and lone daylight
Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear,
Which make thee terrible and dear,-

Swift by thy flight!

7

Wrap thy form in a mantle gray,

Star-inwrought !
Blind with thine hair the eyes of Day,
Kiss her until she be wearied out,
Then wander oe'r city, and sea, and land,
Touching all with thine opiate wand-

Come, long sought!

14

When I arose and saw the dawn,

I sigh'd for thee; When light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree, And the weary Day turn'd to his rest Lingering like an unloved guest,

I sigh'd for thee.

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Thy brother Death came, and cried

Would'st thou me?
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
Murmur'd like a noon-tide bee
Shall I nestle near thy side?
Would'st thou me?--And I replied

No, not thee!

28

Death will come when thou art dead,

Soon, too soon-
Sleep will come when thou art fled;
Of neither would I ask the boon
I ask of thee, beloved Night-
Swift be thine approaching flight,

Come soon, soon!
1821.
1824.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

35

HYMN OF PAN

From the forests and highlands

We come, we come; From the river-girt islands,

Where loud waves are dumb

Listening to my sweet pipings.

Hymn of Pan

The wind in the reeds and the rushes,

The bees on the bells of thyme,
The birds on the myrtle bushes,

The cicale above in the lime,
And the lizards below in the grass,
Were as silent as ever old Tmolus was,

Listening to my sweet pipings.

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Liquid Peneus was flowing,

And all dark Tempe lay
In Pelion's shadow, outgrowing

The light of the dying day,

Speeded by my sweet pipings. The Sileni, and Sylvans, and Fauns,

And the Nymphs of the woods and waves, To the edge of the moist river-lawns,

And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did then attend and follow Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo,

With envy of my sweet pipings.
I sang of the dancing stars,

I sang of the dædal Earth,
And of Heaven and the giant wars,

And Love, and Death, and Birth,

And then I changed my pipings Singing how down the vale of Menalus

I pursued a maiden and clasp'd a reed: Gods and men, we are all deluded thus !

It breaks in our bosom and then we bleed: All wept, as I think both ye now would, If envy or age had not frozen your blood,

At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. 36 1820. 1824.

Percy Bysshe Shelley.

HYMN TO THE NIGHT

I HEARD the trailing garments of the Night

Sweep through her marble halls !
I saw her sable skirts all fringed with light

From the celestial walls!

4

I felt hier presence, by its spell of might,

Stoop o'er me from above;
The calm, majestic presence of the Night,

As of the one I love.

8

I heard the sounds of sorrow and delight,

The manifold, soft chimes, That fill the haunted chambers of the Night,

Like some old poet's rhymes.

12

From the cool cisterns of the midnight air

My spirit drank repose ; The fountain of perpetual peace flows there,

From those deep cisterns flows.

16

O holy Night! from thee I learn to bear

What man has borne before!
Thou layest thy finger on the lips of Care,

And they complain no more.

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