IONE: 
Thou most desired Hour, more loved and lovely
Than all thy sisters, this is the mystic shell; 70
See the pale azure fading into silver
Lining it with a soft yet glowing light: 
Looks it not like lulled music sleeping there?

SPIRIT: 
It seems in truth the fairest shell of Ocean: 
Its sound must be at once both sweet and strange. 75

PROMETHEUS: 
Go, borne over the cities of mankind
On whirlwind-footed coursers:  once again
Outspeed the sun around the orbed world;
And as thy chariot cleaves the kindling air,
Thou breathe into the many-folded shell, 80
Loosening its mighty music; it shall be
As thunder mingled with clear echoes:  then
Return; and thou shalt dwell beside our cave. 
And thou, O Mother Earth!—­

THE EARTH: 
I hear, I feel;
Thy lips are on me, and thy touch runs down 85
Even to the adamantine central gloom
Along these marble nerves; ’tis life, ’tis joy,
And, through my withered, old, and icy frame
The warmth of an immortal youth shoots down
Circling.  Henceforth the many children fair 90
Folded in my sustaining arms; all plants,
And creeping forms, and insects rainbow-winged,
And birds, and beasts, and fish, and human shapes,
Which drew disease and pain from my wan bosom,
Draining the poison of despair, shall take 95
And interchange sweet nutriment; to me
Shall they become like sister-antelopes
By one fair dam, snow-white and swift as wind,
Nursed among lilies near a brimming stream. 
The dew-mists of my sunless sleep shall float 100
Under the stars like balm:  night-folded flowers
Shall suck unwithering hues in their repose: 
And men and beasts in happy dreams shall gather
Strength for the coming day, and all its joy: 
And death shall be the last embrace of her 105
Who takes the life she gave, even as a mother,
Folding her child, says, ‘Leave me not again.’

NOTES:  85 their B; thy 1820. 102 unwithering B, edition 1839; unwitting 1820.

ASIA: 
Oh, mother! wherefore speak the name of death? 
Cease they to love, and move, and breathe, and speak,
Who die?

THE EARTH: 
It would avail not to reply:  110
Thou art immortal, and this tongue is known
But to the uncommunicating dead. 
Death is the veil which those who live call life: 
They sleep, and it is lifted:  and meanwhile
In mild variety the seasons mild 115
With rainbow-skirted showers, and odorous winds,
And long blue meteors cleansing the dull night,
And the life-kindling shafts of the keen sun’s