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Posts Tagged ‘Percy Bysshe Shelley’

Sleep, sleep? I am not dead nor am I tired

Dream of life sets me tasks that shall not wait,

Nightmares that chase my lot if duty shirked.

Many excuses are waking life’s bait

And in cloying phantoms failures they rate

And often these presage sad truth of life:

It is not such as flesh and bones that hurt

Or demean man’s life with corrosive grief

But chances missed and begun with no heart

That the game lost e’en before it could start.

Original Version:

Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep,

       He hath awaken’d from the dream of life;

       ‘Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep

       With phantoms an unprofitable strife,

       And in mad trance, strike with our spirit’s knife

       Invulnerable nothings. We decay

       Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief

       Convulse us and consume us day by day,

And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.

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Original Stanza

 Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!

                Bird thou never wert,

         That from Heaven, or near it,

                Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

Shelley.

benny

Frail of form, lithe and lean

                Waft thou as a sigh wished;

         But no catwalk will hold thee-

             For such a phantasm

Never shall advert man’s art

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Mail me your best offer

You will never find

A better deal than I append

In such doublespeak

As attachment, it shall blow your mind.

 

Profits you seek, profits

I have laid shovelsful

Like a sack of spuds,

You shall take my offer

And the bait is in what you miss, in fine print.

benny

 

 Now for the original

Ode to A Skylark, (…It can’t Tweet)

Note: the byline is mine. b.

 

 

 

         Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!

                Bird thou never wert,

         That from Heaven, or near it,

                Pourest thy full heart

In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

 

         Higher still and higher

                From the earth thou springest

         Like a cloud of fire;

                The blue deep thou wingest,

And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.

 

         In the golden lightning

                Of the sunken sun,

         O’er which clouds are bright’ning,

                Thou dost float and run;

Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.

 

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