‘And fear’st thou, and fear’st thou? And see’st thou, and hear’st thou? And drive we not free O’er the terrible sea, I and thou?’ 35 One boat-cloak did cover The loved and the lover-- Their blood beats one measure, They murmur proud pleasure Soft and low;-- 40 While around the lashed ocean, Like mountains in motion, Is withdrawn and uplifted, Sunk, shattered, and shifted, To and fro. 45 In the court of the fortress, Beside the pale portress, Like a bloodhound well beaten The bridegroom stands, eaten By shame: 50 On the topmost watch turret, As a death-boding spirit, Stands the gray tyrant father, To his voice the mad weather Seems tame; 55 And with curses as wild As e’er clung to child, He devotes to the blast The best, loveliest, and last, Of his name! 60 _Percy Bysshe Shelley._ CXCII _LUCY._ She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove; A maid whom there were none to praise, And very few to love. A violet by a mossy stone 5 Half-hidden from the eye! --Fair as a star, when only one Is shining in the sky. She lived unknown, and few could know When Lucy ceased to be; 10 But she is in her grave, and oh! The difference to me! _William Wordsworth._ CXCIII _ODE TO PSYCHE._ O Goddess, hear these tuneless numbers, wrung By sweet enforcement and remembrance dear, And pardon that thy secrets should be sung, Even into thine own soft-conchèd ear: Surely I dreamt to-day, or did I see 5 The wingèd Psyche with awakened eyes? I wandered in a forest thoughtlessly, And, on the sudden, fainting with surprise, Saw two fair creatures, couchèd side by side In deepest grass, beneath the whispering roof 10 Of leaves and trembled blossoms, where there ran A brooklet, scarce espied: ’Mid hushed, cool-rooted flowers fragrant-eyed, Blue, silver-white, and budded Tyrian, They lay calm-breathing on the bedded grass; 15 Their arms embracèd, and their pinions too; Their lips touched not, but had not bade adieu, As if disjoinèd by soft-handed slumber, And ready still past kisses to outnumber At tender eye-dawn of aurorean love: 20 The wingèd Boy I knew; But who wast thou, O happy, happy dove? His Psyche true!