Percy Bysshe Shelley

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.

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone
Of some world far from ours,
read more

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

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.

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

January grey is here,
Like a sexton by her grave;
February bears the bier,
read more

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.