4. 
Its passions will rock thee 25
As the storms rock the ravens on high;
Bright reason will mock thee,
Like the sun from a wintry sky. 
From thy nest every rafter
Will rot, and thine eagle home 30
Leave thee naked to laughter,
When leaves fall and cold winds come.

NOTES:  6 tones edition 1824; notes Trelawny manuscript. 14 through edition 1824; in Trelawny manuscript. 16 dead edition 1824; lost Trelawny manuscript. 23 choose edition 1824; chose Trelawny manuscript. 25-32 wanting Trelawny manuscript.

***

TO JANE:  THE INVITATION.

[This and the following poem were published together in their original form as one piece under the title, “The Pine Forest of the Cascine near Pisa”, by Mrs. Shelley, “Posthumous Poems”, 1824; reprinted in the same shape, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 1st edition; republished separately in their present form, “Poetical Works”, 1839, 2nd edition.  There is a copy amongst the Trelawny manuscripts.]

Best and brightest, come away! 
Fairer far than this fair Day,
Which, like thee to those in sorrow,
Comes to bid a sweet good-morrow
To the rough Year just awake 5
In its cradle on the brake. 
The brightest hour of unborn Spring,
Through the winter wandering,
Found, it seems, the halcyon Morn
To hoar February born, 10
Bending from Heaven, in azure mirth,
It kissed the forehead of the Earth,
And smiled upon the silent sea,
And bade the frozen streams be free,
And waked to music all their fountains, 15
And breathed upon the frozen mountains,
And like a prophetess of May
Strewed flowers upon the barren way,
Making the wintry world appear
Like one on whom thou smilest, dear. 20

Away, away, from men and towns,
To the wild wood and the downs—­
To the silent wilderness
Where the soul need not repress
Its music lest it should not find 25
An echo in another’s mind,
While the touch of Nature’s art
Harmonizes heart to heart. 
I leave this notice on my door
For each accustomed visitor:—­ 30
’I am gone into the fields
To take what this sweet hour yields;—­
Reflection, you may come to-morrow,
Sit by the fireside with Sorrow.—­
You with the unpaid bill, Despair,—­
You, tiresome verse-reciter, Care,—­ 35
I will pay you in the grave,—­
Death will listen to your stave. 
Expectation too, be off! 
To-day is for itself enough; 40
Hope, in pity mock not Woe
With smiles, nor follow where I go;
Long having lived on thy sweet food,
At length I find one moment’s good
After long pain—­with all your love, 45
This you never told me of.’