The Sensitive Plant

A sensitive plant in a garden grew, And the singer of the garden in that shade Sat in his own glow like a glowworm tend, And while his beauty made him wise, I wept. The long strands of the grass played music low, And the flowers at their root sound like a light.

They sprung and ached in an endless night. Stretching the long fingers of clamoring leaf And down unto the structure in the dust, The droning in the wind that gathers days to blame! But leaf and blossom, petal, glowing, And those drops of magic in their own trance, The tendril and harmony of the fading air.

The flowers made lark responses low; Legions of voices far reach adorned the air; Glorious hues and gift of storms amongst the brave, Distant sounds co-edfined beneath the leaves: Night drowned my heart in lustrous light, And when they heard the distant tones of day; Still, silent, the beating was in vain.

They were loved; feel this love that bids us part. Let the song of flowers spread into the night, Through the leafiness echo cleft the drought, And the seeds of time be all that’s bright! Their mirrors break by ocean slumber—and far away The secret voice whispers through like tears!

• Percy Bysshe Shelley