A star that shoots athwart star-steadfast heaven;

A fluttering aigrette of toss'd passion's brine;

A leaf from youth's immortal missal torn; A bark across dark seas of anguish driven; A feather dropp'd from breast-wings aquiline;

A silvery dream shunning red lips of morn

II

There is no mood, no heart-throb fugitive, No spark from man's imperishable mind, No moment of man's will, that may not find

Form in the Sonnet; and thenceforward live

A potent elf, by art's imperative

Magic to crystal spheres of song confin'd: As in the moonstone's orb pent spirits wind

'Mid dungeon depths day-beams they take and give.

Spare thou no pains; carve thought's pure diamond

With fourteen facets, scattering fire and light :

Uncut, what jewel burns but darkly bright? And Prospero vainly waves his runic wand, If spurning art's inexorable law

In Ariel's prison-sphere he leave one flaw.

With what supports and feeds it ;- from afar

It draws its life, but evermore inclin'd

To leap into the flame that makes men blind

Who seek the secret of all things that are. Such wert thou, Shelley, bound for airiest goal:

Interpreter of quintessential things:
Who mounted ever up on eagle-wings
Of phantasy: had aim'd at heaven and
stole

Promethean fire for men to be as gods,
And dwell in free, aerial abodes.

MEMORIES

My love he went to Burdon Fair,
And of all the gifts that he saw there
Was none could his great love declare;

So he brought me marjoram smelling rare —
Its sweetness filled all the air.
Oh, the days I dote on yet,
Marjoram, pansies, mignonette!

My love he sail'd across the sea,
And all to make a home for me.
Oh, sweet his last kiss on the lea,
The pansies pluck'd beneath the tree,
When he said, “My love, I'll send for
thee!"

Oh, the days I dote on yet,
Marjoram, pansies, mignonette!

His mother sought for me anon;
So long my name she would not own.
Ah, gladly would she now atone,
For we together make our moan!
She brought the mignonette I've sown.
Oh, the days I dote on yet,
Marjoram, pansies, mignonette!