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Song Analysis



Author: Poetry of Percy Bysshe Shelley Type: Poetry Views: 286

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Rarely, rarely comest thou,

Spirit of Delight!

Wherefore hast thou left me now

Many a day and night?

Many a weary night and day

'Tis since thou art fled away.



How shall ever one like me

Win thee back again?

With the joyous and the free

Thou wilt scoff at pain.

Spirit false! thou hast forgot

All but those who need thee not.



As a lizard with the shade

Of a trembling leaf,

Thou with sorrow art dismayed;

Even the sighs of grief

Reproach thee, that thou art not near,

And reproach thou wilt not her.



Let me set my mournful ditty

To a merry measure;--

Thou wilt never come for pity,

Thou wilt come for pleasure;

Pity then will cut away

Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.



I love all that thou lovest,

Spirit of Delight!

The fresh Earth in new leaves dressed,

And the starry night;

Autumn evening, and the morn

When the golden mists are born.



I love snow and all the forms

Of the radiant frost;

I love waves, and winds, and storms,

Everything almost

Which is Nature's, and may be

Untainted by man's misery.



I love tranquil solitude,

And such society

As is quiet, wise, and good;

Between thee and me

What difference? but thou dost possess

The things I seek, not love them less.



I love Love--though he has wings,

And like light can flee,

But above all other things,

Spirit, I love thee--

Thou art love and life! O come!

Make once more my heart thy home!










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||| Analysis | Critique | Overview Below |||

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| Posted on 2013-11-15 | by a guest


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| Posted on 2013-11-14 | by a guest


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This book retells the well-known story of the engletand lives of the poets Shelley, Byron and Keats from a slightly new perspective. By focusing on the social circles surrounding the campaigning journalist Leigh Hunt in which all three poets figured at one time or another, the author argues against the traditional view of the solitary poet declaiming alone on the mountain top or sitting in solitary isolation pondering a bird's song. On the contrary, insists Daisy Hay, this generation of romantic poets viewed poetry as a powerful political weapon. Far from working in isolation, they sharpened their intellects and forged their artistic identities through friendship, conversation and sociability. They talked to each other, fought with each other, hated each other and fell in love. Their stories demonstrate that friendship is not always easy; that relationships with other people can simultaneously be a source of great strength and unknowable pain. But they also show that friendship can be the making of the main, Hay writes.Hay's thesis is not completely convincing and she sometimes strains too hard to prove it. Still, she has produced an engaging group biography about a generation of fascinating men and women while supplying a useful corrective to the traditional view of their lives.Leigh Hunt has faded into semi-obscurity because his journalistic work was by its nature ephemeral. But his relationship with Percy Bysse Shelley forms the fulcrum around which this book revolves. Byron was an early supporter of Leigh Hunt and later a failed business partner. He and Shelley were linked by their lovers and came together from time to time in Switzerland and Italy. Keats had a only a tenuous connection to their group. He was briefly in Leigh Hunt's circle but soon broke away in order to find his own voice.Hunt was a terrible manager of money and, like all the characters in this book, led a mixed-up personal life. While devoted to his wife, Marianne, he also seems to have carried a torch for her sister, Bess, apparently unconsummated. Shelley himself was married to the rather dull Harriet, by whom he had two children, when he met the brilliant, beautiful, intellectual Mary Godwin, then 16, with whom he eloped. Two years later, the 21-year-old Harriet committed suicide by drowning herself. This is the just first of an amazing catalogue of untimely death and personal tragedy this book encompasses. One of Mary's half-sisters, Fanny, also committed suicide, while Bess also tried to drown herself but failed. Keats of course died of tuberculosis aged 26; Shelley drowned in a sailing accident aged 29; Byron made it to the age of 36 and died of disease and medical malpractice in Greece.Mary Shelley had a second half-sister Claire Clairmont. Possibly jealous of Mary's success in hooking a poet, she decided to find her one of her own and wrote an extraordinary letter to Lord Byron, a complete stranger, throwing herself at him. The result was a brief affair and a daughter, Allegra. Bryon soon tired of Claire and refused to see him. However, under the law of the day which gave no rights to mothers, or to women in general, he exercised his right to rip Allegra away from her loving mother. He soon found he didn't want the infant around either, though he refused to allow Claire any access to her, and shoved her out of sight into a convent where she died at the age of five of typhoid or malaria.Claire continued to hang around with the Shelleys. She may have had an affair with the poet and there is the suggestion she bore him a child which soon died. Mary Shelley herself went from one pregnancy to the next. Four of her five children died young. With all this tragedy, how did she have the time and strength to write Frankinstein? Daisy Hay has a little scoop in this book which she saves for the final pages a previously unknown autobiographical fragment written by Claire in which she describes both Shelley and Byron as monsters of lying, meanness, cruelty and tragedy. After reading this book, one feels that verdict is about right.This book concerns a time when poetry really mattered, when new poems excited heated public debate and poets were public figures of the first order. When Byron published the first two cantos of Childe Harold, he woke up to find himself famous. His poem, The Corsair sold 10,000 copies on the first day of publication. But today, who outside of English lit majors reads this stuff? The author could have done much more to explain the greatness of the poetry and why it still matters today if indeed it does.

| Posted on 2013-11-13 | by a guest


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Tricksy Death! Bad Death, no souls for (you). A more honest apaorpch is favoured did I mention I have a deal on some shoes?Sleep I'm with Voltaire (or whoever it was). As little as possible it's wasted life, man. you just don't get that time back. Of course, dreams sometimes rock the terror! the terror! hey, well, perchance to dream.Night night. Thanks for the poem I liked it. P

| Posted on 2013-11-12 | by a guest




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