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Percy Bysshe Shelley
I pant for the music which is divine,
My heart in its thirst is a dying flower;
Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine,
Loosen the notes in a silver shower;
Like a herbless plain, for the gentle rain,
I gasp, I faint, till they wake again.
Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound,
More, oh more,--I am thirsting yet;
It loosens the serpent which care has bound
Upon my heart to stifle it;
The dissolving strain, through every vein,
Passes into my heart and brain.
As the scent of a violet withered up,
Which grew by the brink of a silver lake,
When the hot noon has drained its dewy cup,
And mist there was none its thirst to slake--
Now how could I, with gold to spare,
Who know the harlot's arms, and wine,
Sit in this green field all alone,
If Nature was not truly mine?
That Pleasure life wakes stale at morn,
From heavy sleep that no rest brings:
This life of quiet joy wakes fresh,
And claps its wings at morn, and sings.
So here sit I, alone till noon,
In one long dream of quiet bliss;
I hear the lark and share his joy,
With no more winedrops than were his.
Such, Nature, is thy charm and power--
Since I have made the Muse my wife--
To keep me from the harlot's arms,
And save me from a drunkard's life.
A chaplain in the army,
A chaplain in the prisons,
An exhorter in Spoon River,
Drunk with divinity, Spoon River—
Yet bringing poor Eliza Johnson to shame,
And myself to scorn and wretchedness.
But why will you never see that love of women,
And even love of wine,
Are the stimulants by which the soul, hungering for divinity,
Reaches the ecstatic vision
And sees the celestial outposts?
Only after many trials for strength,
Only when all stimulants fail,
Does the aspiring soul
By its own sheer power
Find the divine
This is not water running here,
These thick rebellious streams
That hurtle flesh and bone past fear
Down alleyways of dreams.
This is a wine that must flow on
Not caring how nor where,
So it has ways to flow upon
Where song is in the air.
So it can woo an artful flute
With loose, elastic lips,
Its measurement of joy compute
With blithe, ecstatic hips.
in dry weather
I go for wine
the secret owl of my heart
is married to a swan
night is a welcome wine
and a great carcass
I go home to supper
red as a bee
infirm as a child born yesterday
I am vexed to see myself
in my glass of wine
red and old
in fine hard boxes
how harmlessly
the old people lie
yet I believe in wine and cake
at the banquet I was jealous
of my stomach
sand is good and simple
the only thing like a thing
since the wine bar oysters
brought me to bed
stone got
the better of paper
as I oblige myself with six
bottles of wine
wine tongues
bringing night home
in our blood
I drink her wine
but not her coffee
I am buying love
not an ear
evening comes with few words
to my bed