Percy Bysshe Shelley

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds

O, white innocence,
That thou shouldst wear the mask of guilt to hide
Thine awful and serenest read more

O, white innocence,
That thou shouldst wear the mask of guilt to hide
Thine awful and serenest countenance
From those who know thee not!

Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine,
Yet let's be merry; we'll have tea and toast;
read more

Though we eat little flesh and drink no wine,
Yet let's be merry; we'll have tea and toast;
Custards for supper, and an endless host
Of syllabubs and jellies and mince-pies,
And other such ladylike luxuries.

The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame
Over his living head like Heaven is bent,
An early but read more

The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame
Over his living head like Heaven is bent,
An early but enduring monument,
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song
In sorrow.

You must come home with me and be my guest;
You will give joy to me, and I will read more

You must come home with me and be my guest;
You will give joy to me, and I will do
All that is in my power to honour you.