"I am not one who was born in the custody of wisdom. I am one who is fond of olden times and intense in quest of the sacred knowing of the ancients." Gustave Courbet

06 November 2016

Will.


The cold earth slept below; 
         Above the cold sky shone; 
                And all around, 
                With a chilling sound, 
From caves of ice and fields of snow 
The breath of night like death did flow 
                Beneath the sinking moon. 

The wintry hedge was black; 
         The green grass was not seen; 
                The birds did rest 
                On the bare thorn’s breast, 
Whose roots, beside the pathway track, 
Had bound their folds o’er many a crack 
                Which the frost had made between. 

Thine eyes glow’d in the glare 
         Of the moon’s dying light; 
                As a fen-fire’s beam 
                On a sluggish stream 
Gleams dimly—so the moon shone there, 
And it yellow’d the strings of thy tangled hair, 
                That shook in the wind of night. 

The moon made thy lips pale, beloved; 
         The wind made thy bosom chill; 
                The night did shed 
                On thy dear head 
Its frozen dew, and thou didst lie 
Where the bitter breath of the naked sky 
                Might visit thee at will. 

Percy Bysshe Shelley 

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