Percy Bysshe Shelley
How, my dear Mary, -- are you critic-bitten
(For vipers kill, though dead) by some review,
That you condemn these verses I have written,
Because they tell no story, false or true?
What, though no mice are caught by a young kitten,
May it not leap and play as grown cats do,
Till its claws come? Prithee, for this one time,
Content thee with a visionary rhyme.
What hand would crush the silken-wingèd fly,
The youngest of inconstant April's minions,
Because it cannot climb the purest sky,
Where the swan sings, amid the sun's dominions?
Not thine. Thou knowest 'tis its doom to die,
When Day shall hide within her twilight pinions
The lucent eyes, and the eternal smile,
Serene as thine, which lent it life awhile.
To thy fair feet a wingèd Vision came,
Whose date should have been longer than a day,
And o'er thy head did beat its wings for fame,
And in thy sight its fading plumes display;
The watery bow burned in the evening flame,
But the shower fell, the swift Sun went his way-
And that is dead.-O, let me not believe
That anything of mine is fit to live!
Wordsworth informs us he was nineteen years
Considering and retouching Peter Bell;
Watering his laurels with the killing tears
Of slow, dull care, so that their roots to Hell
Might pierce, and their wide branches blot the spheres
Of Heaven, with dewy leaves and flowers; this well
May be, for Heaven and Earth conspire to foil
The over-busy gardener's blundering toil.
My Witch indeed is not so sweet a creature
As Ruth or Lucy, whom his graceful praise
Clothes for our grandsons-but she matches Peter,
Though he took nineteen years, and she three days
In dressing. Light the vest of flowing metre
She wears; he, proud as dandy with his stays,
Has hung upon his wiry limbs a dress
Like King Lear's 'looped and windowed raggedness.'
If you strip Peter, you will see a fellow
Scorched by Hell's hyperequatorial climate
Into a kind of a sulphureous yellow:
A lean mark, hardly fit to fling a rhyme at;
In shape a Scaramouch, in hue Othello.
If you unveil my Witch, no priest nor primate
Can shrive you of that sin, -- if sin there be
In love, when it becomes idolatry.
Percy Bysshe Shelley's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (To Mary by Percy Bysshe Shelley )
- Pick-Ups!, Edward Kofi Louis
- AK-47, Edward Kofi Louis
- Poem for Dwayne, Jenny Santiago
- Raschid, Edward Kofi Louis
- Cupcake capers, Roann Mendriq
- Dschamila, Edward Kofi Louis
- Scattered dreams, gajanan mishra
- The Glow on the Outback Hill, David Lewis Paget
- God's Kind of Poetry, Diane Hine
- Whole world enjoys with this pain,, Aftab Alam
Poem of the Day
- 04 Tongues Made Of Glass, Shaun Shane
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- At Last She Comes, Robert Louis Stevenson
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- If You Forget Me, Pablo Neruda
- Daffodils, William Wordsworth
- Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening, Robert Frost
- If, Rudyard Kipling
- Trees, Joyce Kilmer
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
- Heather Burns
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(13 September 1916 – 23 November 1990)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
William Carlos Williams
(17 September 1883 – 4 March 1963)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)