[Composed March, 1814.  Published in Hogg’s “Life of Shelley”, 1858.]

Thy dewy looks sink in my breast;
Thy gentle words stir poison there;
Thou hast disturbed the only rest
That was the portion of despair! 
Subdued to Duty’s hard control, 5
I could have borne my wayward lot: 
The chains that bind this ruined soul
Had cankered then—­but crushed it not.

***

STANZAS.—­APRIL, 1814.

[Composed at Bracknell, April, 1814.  Published with “Alastor”, 1816.]

Away! the moor is dark beneath the moon,
Rapid clouds have drank the last pale beam of even: 
Away! the gathering winds will call the darkness soon,
And profoundest midnight shroud the serene lights of heaven.

Pause not!  The time is past!  Every voice cries, Away! 5
Tempt not with one last tear thy friend’s ungentle mood: 
Thy lover’s eye, so glazed and cold, dares not entreat thy stay: 
Duty and dereliction guide thee back to solitude.

Away, away! to thy sad and silent home;
Pour bitter tears on its desolated hearth; 10
Watch the dim shades as like ghosts they go and come,
And complicate strange webs of melancholy mirth.

The leaves of wasted autumn woods shall float around thine head: 
The blooms of dewy spring shall gleam beneath thy feet: 
But thy soul or this world must fade in the frost that binds the dead, 15
Ere midnight’s frown and morning’s smile, ere thou and peace may meet.

The cloud shadows of midnight possess their own repose,
For the weary winds are silent, or the moon is in the deep: 
Some respite to its turbulence unresting ocean knows;
Whatever moves, or toils, or grieves, hath its appointed sleep. 20

Thou in the grave shalt rest—­yet till the phantoms flee
Which that house and heath and garden made dear to thee erewhile,
Thy remembrance, and repentance, and deep musings are not free
From the music of two voices and the light of one sweet smile.

Note: 
6 tear 1816; glance 1839.

***

TO HARRIET.

[Composed May, 1814.  Published (from the Esdaile manuscript) by Dowden, “Life of Shelley”, 1887.]

Thy look of love has power to calm
The stormiest passion of my soul;
Thy gentle words are drops of balm
In life’s too bitter bowl;
No grief is mine, but that alone 5
These choicest blessings I have known.

Harriet! if all who long to live
In the warm sunshine of thine eye,
That price beyond all pain must give,—­
Beneath thy scorn to die; 10
Then hear thy chosen own too late
His heart most worthy of thy hate.