Percy Bysshe Shelley

Of all their beauty, and their hair and hue,

The life of their sweet eyes, with all its error,

Should be absorbed, till they to marble grew.

Good-night? ah! no; the hour is ill

Which severs those it should unite;

Let us remain together still,

Then it will be good night.

How can I call the lone night good,

Though thy sweet wishes wing its flight?

Be it not said, thought, understood—

Then it will be—good night

His face was like a snake’s—wrinkled and loose

And withered—

My head is heavy, my limbs are weary,

And it is not life that makes me move.

She was a lady of great accomplishments, and charming from her frank and affectionate nature. She had the most intense love of knowledge, a delicate and trembling sensibility, and preserved freshness of mind after a life of considerable adversity

When I arose and saw the dawn,

I sighed for thee;

When light rode high, and the dew was gone,

And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,

And the weary Day turned to his rest,

Indifference, that once hurt me, now is grown

Itself indifferent

Break like a bursting heart, and die in foam,

And thus at length find rest:

Doubtless there is a place of peace

He wanders, like a day-appearing dream,

Through the dim wildernesses of the mind;

Through desert woods and tracts, which seem

Like ocean, homeless, boundless, unconfined