To Coleridge

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Oh! there are spirits of the air,      And genii of the evening breeze, And gentle ghosts, with eyes as fair      As star-beams among twilight trees: Such lovely ministers to meet Oft hast thou turned from men thy lonely feet. With mountain winds, and babbling springs,      And moonlight seas, that are the voice Of these inexplicable things,      Thou dost hold commune, and rejoice When they did answer thee, but they Cast, like a worthless boon, thy love away. And thou hast sought in starry eyes      Beams that were never meant for thine, Another's wealth: tame sacrifice      To a fond faith ! still dost thou pine? Still dost thou hope that greeting hands, Voice, looks, or lips, may answer thy demands? Ah! wherefore didst thou build thine hope      On the false earth's inconstancy? Did thine own mind afford no scope      Of love, or moving thoughts to thee? That natural scenes or human smiles Could steal the power to wind thee in their wiles? Yes, all the faithless smiles are fled      Whose falsehood left thee broken-hearted; The glory of the moon is dead;      Night's ghosts and dreams have now departed; Thine own soul still is true to thee, But changed to a foul fiend through misery. This fiend, whose ghastly presence ever      Beside thee like thy shadow hangs, Dream not to chase: the mad endeavour      Would scourge thee to severer pangs. Be as thou art. Thy settled fate, Dark as it is, all change would aggravate.