Percy Bysshe Shelley

And the wand-like lily which lifted up,
As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup,
Till the fiery star, read more

And the wand-like lily which lifted up,
As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup,
Till the fiery star, which is its eye,
Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky.

January grey is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,
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January grey is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,
March with grief doth howl and rave,
And April weeps--but, O ye hours!
Follow with May's fairest flowers.

Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books read more

Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skilled to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone
Of some world far from ours,
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Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone
Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling
Are one.

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,
And feeds her grief.

Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,
And feeds her grief.