Another English poet says: "Shelley outsang all poets on record but some two or three throughout all time; his depths and heights of inner and outer music are as divine as nature's, and not sooner exhaustible. He was alone the perfect singing-god; his thoughts, words, deeds, all sang together." "The poet who creates a new ideal, and fills men's hearts with the flame of a divine desire, is a practical force in the stream of human development--and this Shelley has done. So much of his poetry is full of the tender melancholy of the moonlight he loved, that the world is still half blind to his highest bardic character, as the poet of a spiritual dawn, the eager spirit who flies forward-- "Calling the lapsèd soul, And weeping in the morning dew." Even his moonlight seems to reflect the beams of some unrisen sun; and his sunlight has all the ethereal exhilaration of that of the first hours of a glorious day."--_John Todhunter._ =Other Poems to be Read:= Adonais; The Sensitive Plant; The Cloud; Mount Blanc; To Wordsworth; The Euganean Hills; Liberty; Alastor; Prometheus Unbound. REFERENCES: De Quincey's _Essays_; Jeaffreson's _The Real Shelley_; _Shelley_ (English Men of Letters), by J. A. Symonds; Leigh Hunt's _Imagination and Fancy_; Rossetti's _Memoir of Shelley_; Dowden's _Life of P. B. Shelley_; Moore's _Life of Lord Byron_; Middleton's _Shelley and his Writings_; Medwin's _Life of Shelley_; Trelawney's _Recollections of the Last Days of Shelley and Byron_; Todhunter's _Shelley: A Study_. John Keats. ODE TO A NIGHTINGALE. I My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk, Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains One minute past, and Lethe-wards{1} had sunk: 'Tis not through envy of thy happy lot, But being too happy in thy happiness,-- That thou, light-winged Dryad{2} of the trees, In some melodious plot Of beechen green, and shadows numberless, Singest of summer in full-throated ease. II. O for a draught of vintage, that hath been Cooled a long age in the deep-delved earth, Tasting of Flora and the country-green, Dance, and Provençal song,{3} and sun-burnt mirth! O for a beaker full of the warm South, Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene,{4} With beaded bubbles winking at the brim, And purple-stained mouth; That I might drink, and leave the world unseen, And with thee fade away into the forest dim: III.