reader for a last example to turn first to Pushkin's "Cloud," and then read Shelley's poem on the same subject:—
"I bear light shade for the leaves when laid
In their noonday dreams. [Just how are leaves thus laid?]
From my wings are shaken the dews that waken
The sweet buds every one,
When rocked to rest on their mother's breast,
As she dances about in the sun."
(Oh, good, my Shelley! one dances to and fro; one cannot dance in a uniform, straightforward motion. Thy imagination never saw that picture! Spin, whirl, rush,—yes, but dance?)
"That orbed maiden with white fire laden
Whom mortals call the Moon
Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor,
By the midnight breezes strewn;
And wherever the beat of her unseen feet
Which only the angels hear
May have broken the woof of my tent's roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer."
Who has not been stirred by the sight of the fleece-like, broken clouds on a moonlight night? But who on looking up to that noble arch overhead at such a moment could see it as a floor?…
29. I call this wretched poetry, even though other critics vociferously declare Shelley's
