MY faint spirit was sitting in the light 
   Of thy looks, my love; 
   It panted for thee like the hind at noon 
   For the brooks, my love. 
Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight, 
   Bore thee far from me; 
   My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon, 
   Did companion thee. 

Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed, 
   Or the death they bear, 
   The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove 
   With the wings of care; 
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need, 
   Shall mine cling to thee, 
   Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love, 
   It may bring to thee. 

Added: May 2 2005 | Viewed: 777 times | Comments (0)

Poet: Percy Bysshe Shelley
Poem: From the Arabic, an Imitation

Poem of the Day on:
Aug 6 2005
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