Ode to Percy Shelley the Poet

Описание: Ode to Percy Shelley the Poet

I.
Oh Spirit bright, of twenty-seven years,
Whose flame consumed too quickly in the breeze,
Whose music charms away all earthly fears,
And lifts the soul to sunlit, distant seas!
Thou art a voice that echoes through the air,
A lark ascending from the shadowed ground,
Whose song of freedom banishes despair,
Where tyranny and dullness can be found.
Oh Shelley, bard of vision keen and deep,
Whose quill was dipped in starlight and in dew,
While lesser mortals lay in heavy sleep,
Thy waking thoughts forever rang as true.
Thy passion burned, a pure and noble fire,
To break the chains that bind the human will,
To lift the common heart a little higher,
And bid the torrent of injustice still.

II.
Adonais, thine elegy, a silver sound,
Weeping for one too perfect for this sphere,
Where cruelest fates on genius can be found,
And envy poisons what the world holds dear.
But weep not long, for though the boat was lost,
And shadows claimed thee on the Tuscan wave,
Thy words remain, whatever be the cost,
A living monument beyond the grave.
Thy Prometheus unbound, a titan's plea,
Against the ancient gods of might and pride,
A fierce demand for perfect liberty,
Where truth and love can never be denied.
We hear the tramp of unseen, marching feet,
The rising tide of man's eventual right,
The promise whispered, achingly sweet,
That darkness yields at last to golden light.

III.
Oh, how the words like airy fountains leap,
From "Ode to the West Wind," wild and strong,
Where scattered thoughts like dying leaves do sweep,
To be made new where vernal hopes belong.
Be thou, Oh wind, my spirit's breath and might,
To bear my words across the fading year,
To scatter them as ashes in the night,
That future ages may perceive them clear.
The skylark sings, unseen, yet piercing high,
A passion pouring forth without an aim,
Save joy itself beneath the boundless sky,
A pure expression of the inner flame.
So did thy verse ascend, untamed and free,
Ignoring earthly measure, rule, or rhyme,
A sudden burst of wild intensity,
That mocks the dull conventions of our time.

IV.
The sensitive heart that felt too keenly known,
The scorn of crowds, the misunderstanding's sting,
Yet still, alone, upon a marble throne,
Thou taught the eager heart how it should sing.
Thy love for Mary, intellectual grace,
A bond unbroken by the storms of fate,
Reflected beauty in a shadowed place,
And made of suffering something truly great.
For even Beatrice, the spectral queen,
Who walked with thee in landscapes of the mind,
Was but a mirror of the life unseen,
The perfect vision thou wert sworn to find.
Though critics frowned and pious lips did sneer,
And cast their stones at thy poetic art,
The passing ages hold thy vision dear,
The purest flame that burned within the heart.

V.
Farewell, young dreamer of the golden age,
Whose boat went down beneath the azure sea,
Thou hast turned down thy final, earthly page,
To join the chorus of eternity.
Yet look! Thy verses, buoyant on the flood,
Float onward still, refusing to decay,
A cleansing torrent, beautifully understood,
That washes all the dusty grime away.
We read thee now, beneath a cooler sun,
And feel the stir of that inspiring power,
The battle fought, though briefly thou hast run,
Thy legacy endures beyond the hour.
Oh Shelley, poet, visionary bold and bright,
Thy spirit lives where freedom's breezes blow,
A constant beacon in the fading light,
That guides the seeking soul where dreams may grow.
©Jack Cavendish 2026