|
|
The Birth Of Pleasure.
By Percy Bysshe Shelley
At the creation of the Earth
Pleasure, that divinest birth,
From the soil of Heaven did rise,
Wrapped in sweet wild melodies -
Like an exhalation wreathing
To the sound of air low-breathing
Through Aeolian pines, which make
A shade and shelter to the lake
Whence it rises soft and slow;
Her life-breathing [limbs] did flow
In the harmony divine
Of an ever-lengthening line
Which enwrapped her perfect form
With a beauty clear and warm.
Extra Info:
|
|
Printable Page
Add Your Thoughts on this poem.
This page viewed 345 times.
|
|
