Thy dewy looks sink in my breast;
Thy gentle words stir poison there;
Thou hast disturbed the only rest
That was the portion of despair!
Subdued to Duty’s hard control,
I could have borne my wayward lot:
The chains that bind this ruined soul
Had cankered then—but crushed it not.
More verses by Percy Bysshe Shelley
- To William Shelley.
- Song. To [harriet]
- Lines To A Reviewer
- Sonnet : From The Italian Of Cavalcanti
- The Sensitive Plant