Percy Bysshe Shelley and William Wordsworth Lovers : Forum : PB Shelley and Wordsworth Poet..


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PB Shelley and Wordsworth Poetry

8 Years Ago


This thread will feature poems from both PB Shelley and Wordsworth in no specific order or liking. A new poem will be featured every Month. Members can, of course, comment on the featured poems.

PS. Please avoid quoting poems on your own, it gets mixed up. Comment only on the featured poems.
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Feature: March 2011

8 Years Ago


To Jane ('The keen stars were twinkling') by PB Shelley

The keen stars were twinkling
And the fair moon was rising among them,
Dear Jane:
The guitar was tinkling,
But the notes were not sweet till you sung them
Again.
As the moon's soft splendor
O'er the faint cold starlight of heaven
Is thrown,
So your voice most tender
To the strings without soul had then given
Its own.

The stars will awaken,
Though the moon sleep a full hour later,
Tonight;
No leaf will be shaken
Whilst the dews of your melody scatter
Delight.
Though the sound overpowers,
Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone
Of some world far from ours
Where music and moonlight and feeling
Are one.
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Feature: April 2011

8 Years Ago


'Surprised by Joy' by William Wordsworth

Surprised by joy -impatient as the wind
I turned to share the transport - Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind -
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss? - That thought's return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart's best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn,
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

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Feature: May 2011

8 Years Ago


'One word is too often profaned' by PB Shelley

One word is too often profaned
  For me to profane it,
One feeling too falsely disdain'd
  For thee to disdain it.
One hope is too like despair
  For prudence to smother,
And pity from thee more dear
  Than that from another.

I can give not what men call love;
  But wilt thou accept not
The worship the heart lifts above
  And the Heavens reject not:
The desire of the moth for the star,
  Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
  From the sphere of our sorrow?