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.

Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.

Poetry is a mirror which makes beautiful that which is distorted.

And many an ante-natal tomb
When butterflies dream of the life to come.

And many an ante-natal tomb
When butterflies dream of the life to come.

. . . then black despair
The shadow of a starless night, was thrown
Over the world read more

. . . then black despair
The shadow of a starless night, was thrown
Over the world in which I moved alone.

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.