The Witch of Atlas

As the glorious sun descends in fame, The forest sits in glory, vainly untamed; While the night is lastly here to refrain And let out each soft shade be made the same.

What a time to champ down brightly flamed, The dreams beneath her blessèd brow, unless, When lured by the sunset, to brightly burn. Less in vain most do sit and spy their prey— But the wooded alleys dwell like breathless pale.

Beauty shuns and gently lets go so bright, The old gods enfold their eerie constrictor, Clinging on shades that murmur below light, Like wetness moving air to have at ease!

The fair delight of pleasure’s flushes shall grow, And let stone bless their breath that birth these streams. Listen, waves return to feed forever glow For all are held by sorrows true and sweet:

• Percy Bysshe Shelley