Percy Bysshe Shelley Poems

Dear home, thou scene of earliest hopes and joys,
The least of which wronged Memory ever makes
Bitterer than all thine unremembered tears.
...

Is it that in some brighter sphere
We part from friends we meet with here?
Or do we see the Future pass
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My head is wild with weeping for a grief
Which is the shadow of a gentle mind.
I walk into the air (but no relief
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I am drunk with the honey wine
Of the moon-unfolded eglantine,
Which fairies catch in hyacinth bowls.
The bats, the dormice, and the moles
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A:
Not far from hence. From yonder pointed hill,
Crowned with a ring of oaks, you may behold
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I faint, I perish with my love! I grow
Frail as a cloud whose [splendours] pale
Under the evening's ever-changing glow:
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Nor happiness, nor majesty, nor fame,
Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms or arts,
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I.
Hopes, that swell in youthful breasts,
Live not through the waste of time!
Love’s rose a host of thorns invests;
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At the creation of the Earth
Pleasure, that divinest birth,
From the soil of Heaven did rise,
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Rome has fallen, ye see it lying
Heaped in undistinguished ruin:
Nature is alone undying.
...