Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/723

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But when I speak—thou dost not say
    What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
    Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou wouldst stay, e'en as thou art,
    All cold and all serene—
I still might press thy silent heart,
    And where thy smiles have been.
While e'en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
    Thou seemest still mine own;
But there—I lay thee in thy grave,
    And I am now alone!

I do not think, where'er thou art,
    Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
    In thinking too of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
    Of light ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
    And never can restore!



PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

1792-1822


605. 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.