When Jupiter has fallen, has sunk into the abyss, the Earth and the Moon join in an exulting antiphon, a hymn of praise that has not its equal. The Earth exults over its deliverance from the tyranny of the Deity; the Moon sings its burning, rapturous love-song to the Earth--tells how mute and still it becomes, how full of love, when it is covered by the shadow of the Earth. Its barrenness is at an end:-- "Green stalks burst forth, and bright flowers grow, And living shapes upon my bosom move: Music is in the sea and air, Winged clouds soar here and there, Dark with the rain new buds are dreaming of: 'Tis Love, all Love!" Shelley's imagination resolves nature into its elements, and rejoices over each of them with the naïveté of a child. The Witch of Atlas delights in fire:-- "Men scarcely know how beautiful fire is; Each flame of it is as a precious stone Dissolved in ever-moving light, and _this_ Belongs to each and all who gaze thereon." And she loves the beauty of sleep:-- "A pleasure sweet doubtless it was to see Mortals subdued in all the shapes of sleep. Here lay two sister-twins in infancy; There a lone youth who in his dreams did weep; Within, two lovers linked innocently In their loose locks which over both did creep Like ivy from one stem; and there lay calm Old age with snow-bright hair and folded palm." Shelley feels with the streams, which are loved by the sea and disappear in his depths; he sings by the death-bed and bier of nature in autumn and winter; he remembers the flowers that were strewn over Adonis; he describes the goddess of the summer and of beauty, who (like a female Balder) tends the flowers of the gardens; and he paints the progress of the Spirits of the Hours through the heavens (_Arethusa, Hymn of Apollo, Hymn of Pan, Autumn, The Sensitive Plant_, the Hours in _Prometheus Unbound_), For everything in life and nature he has found the fitting poetic word--for the waste and solitary places, "Where we taste The pleasure of believing what we see Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be"; for time, "Unfathomable sea, whose waves are years! Ocean of time, whose waters of deep woe Are brackish with the salt of human tears!" for snow, "and all the forms of the radiant frost." The whole poem in which these last words occur ought to be read. Into it, in a sad mood, he has compressed all his love of nature. It is called simply _Song_, and is addressed to the Spirit of Delight. This Spirit, the poet complains, has deserted him; it forgets all but those who need it not; and such an one as he, can never win it back again, for it is dismayed with sorrow, and reproach it will not hear. Yet, he goes on to say,