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[Published by Mrs. Shelley, "Posthumous Poems", 1824.]
I pant for the music which is divine,
My heart in its thirst is a dying flower;
Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine,
Loosen the notes in a silver shower;
Like a herbless plain, for the gentle rain, _5
I gasp, I faint, till they wake again.
Let me drink of the spirit of that sweet sound,
More, oh more,--I am thirsting yet;
It loosens the serpent which care has bound
Upon my heart to stifle it; _10
The dissolving strain, through every vein,
Passes into my heart and brain.
As the scent of a violet withered up,
Which grew by the brink of a silver lake,
When the hot noon has drained its dewy cup, _15
And mist there was none its thirst to slake--
And the violet lay dead while the odour flew
On the wings of the wind o'er the waters blue--
As one who drinks from a charmed cup
Of foaming, and sparkling, and murmuring wine, _20
Whom, a mighty Enchantress filling up,
Invites to love with her kiss divine...
_16 mist 1824; tank 1839, 2nd edition.
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