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

Dinesh Sairam	PB Shelley and Wordsworth Poetry 13 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.
Dinesh Sairam	Feature: March 2011 13 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.
Dinesh Sairam	Feature: April 2011 13 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.
Dinesh Sairam	Feature: May 2011 12 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?