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Seraph of Heaven! too gentle to be human,
Veiling beneath that radiant form of woman,
All that is insupportable in thee,
Of light, and love, and immortality!
Sweet benediction in the eternal curse!
Veil'd glory in this lampless universe!
Thou moon beyond the clouds! Thou living form
Among the dead! Thou star above the storm!
Thou wonder, and thou beauty, and thou terror!
Thou harmony of nature's art! Thou mirror
In whom, as in the splendour of the sun,
All shapes look glorious which thou gazest on.
Veiling beneath that radiant form of woman,
All that is insupportable in thee,
Of light, and love, and immortality!
Sweet benediction in the eternal curse!
Veil'd glory in this lampless universe!
Thou moon beyond the clouds! Thou living form
Among the dead! Thou star above the storm!
Thou wonder, and thou beauty, and thou terror!
Thou harmony of nature's art! Thou mirror
In whom, as in the splendour of the sun,
All shapes look glorious which thou gazest on.
------ A star
Which moves not in the moving heavens alone;
A smile amid dark frowns. A gentle tone
Amid rude voices. A beloved light;
A solitude; a refuge; a delight.
A lute, which those whom love has taught to play,
Make music on, to soothe the roughest day,
And lull fond grief asleep. A buried treasure.
A cradle of young thoughts of wingless pleasure.
A violet-shrouded grave of woe. I measure
The world of fancies, seeking one like thee,
And find—alas! mine own infirmity.
—Shelley's Epipsychidion.
Which moves not in the moving heavens alone;
A smile amid dark frowns. A gentle tone
Amid rude voices. A beloved light;
A solitude; a refuge; a delight.
A lute, which those whom love has taught to play,
Make music on, to soothe the roughest day,
And lull fond grief asleep. A buried treasure.
A cradle of young thoughts of wingless pleasure.
A violet-shrouded grave of woe. I measure
The world of fancies, seeking one like thee,
And find—alas! mine own infirmity.
“So sweet, that the very senses ache at her.”
—Othello.
—Othello.
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