The Complete Poetical Works, by Percy Bysshe Shelley


An Elegy on the Death of John Keats, Author of Endymion, Hyperion, Etc.

Αστερ πριν μεν ελαμπεσ ενι ζοοισιν Εοοσ

νυν δε θανον λαμπεισ Εσπεροσ εν φθιμενοισ


Aster prin men elampes eni zooisin Eoos

nun de thanon lampeis Esperos en phthimenois.

[“Adonais” was composed at Pisa during the early days of June, 1821, and printed, with the author’s name, at Pisa, ‘with the types of Didot,’ by July 13, 1821. Part of the impression was sent to the brothers Ollier for sale in London. An exact reprint of this Pisa edition (a few typographical errors only being corrected) was issued in 1829 by Gee & Bridges, Cambridge, at the instance of Arthur Hallam and Richard Monckton Milnes (Lord Houghton). The poem was included in Galignani’s edition of “Coleridge, Shelley and Keats”, Paris, 1829, and by Mrs. Shelley in the “Poetical Works” of 1839. Mrs. Shelley’s text presents three important variations from that of the editio princeps. In 1876 an edition of the “Adonais”, with Introduction and Notes, was printed for private circulation by Mr. H. Buxton Forman, C.B. Ten years later a reprint ‘in exact facsimile’ of the Pisa edition was edited with a Bibliographical Introduction by Mr. T.J. Wise (“Shelley Society Publications”, 2nd Series, No. 1, Reeves & Turner, London, 1886). Our text is that of the editio princeps, Pisa, 1821, modified by Mrs. Shelley’s text of 1839. The readings of the editio princeps, wherever superseded, are recorded in the footnotes. The Editor’s Notes at the end of the Volume 3 should be consulted.]

Table of Contents



Cancelled Passages of Adonais.


Pharmakon elthe, Bion, poti son stoma, pharmakon eides.

pos ten tois cheilessi potesrame, kouk eglukanthe;

tis de Brotos tossouton anameros, e kerasai toi,

e dounai laleonti to pharmakon; ekphugen odan.


It is my intention to subjoin to the London edition of this poem a criticism upon the claims of its lamented object to be classed among the writers of the highest genius who have adorned our age. My known repugnance to the narrow principles of taste on which several of his earlier compositions were modelled prove at least that I am an impartial judge. I consider the fragment of “Hyperion” as second to nothing that was ever produced by a writer of the same years.

John Keats died at Rome of a consumption, in his twenty-fourth year, on the — of — 1821; and was buried in the romantic and lonely cemetery of the Protestants in that city, under the pyramid which is the tomb of Cestius, and the massy walls and towers, now mouldering and desolate, which formed the circuit of ancient Rome. The cemetery is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death, to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.

The genius of the lamented person to whose memory I have dedicated these unworthy verses was not less delicate and fragile than it was beautiful; and where cankerworms abound, what wonder if its young flower was blighted in the bud? The savage criticism on his “Endymion”, which appeared in the “Quarterly Review”, produced the most violent effect on his susceptible mind; the agitation thus originated ended in the rupture of a blood-vessel in the lungs; a rapid consumption ensued, and the succeeding acknowledgements from more candid critics of the true greatness of his powers were ineffectual to heal the wound thus wantonly inflicted.

It may be well said that these wretched men know not what they do. They scatter their insults and their slanders without heed as to whether the poisoned shaft lights on a heart made callous by many blows or one like Keats’s composed of more penetrable stuff. One of their associates is, to my knowledge, a most base and unprincipled calumniator. As to “Endymion”, was it a poem, whatever might be its defects, to be treated contemptuously by those who had celebrated, with various degrees of complacency and panegyric, “Paris”, and “Woman”, and a “Syrian Tale”, and Mrs. Lefanu, and Mr. Barrett, and Mr. Howard Payne, and a long list of the illustrious obscure? Are these the men who in their venal good nature presumed to draw a parallel between the Reverend Mr. Milman and Lord Byron? What gnat did they strain at here, after having swallowed all those camels? Against what woman taken in adultery dares the foremost of these literary prostitutes to cast his opprobrious stone? Miserable man! you, one of the meanest, have wantonly defaced one of the noblest specimens of the workmanship of God. Nor shall it be your excuse, that, murderer as you are, you have spoken daggers, but used none.

The circumstances of the closing scene of poor Keats’s life were not made known to me until the “Elegy” was ready for the press. I am given to understand that the wound which his sensitive spirit had received from the criticism of “Endymion” was exasperated by the bitter sense of unrequited benefits; the poor fellow seems to have been hooted from the stage of life, no less by those on whom he had wasted the promise of his genius, than those on whom he had lavished his fortune and his care. He was accompanied to Rome, and attended in his last illness by Mr. Severn, a young artist of the highest promise, who, I have been informed, ‘almost risked his own life, and sacrificed every prospect to unwearied attendance upon his dying friend.’ Had I known these circumstances before the completion of my poem, I should have been tempted to add my feeble tribute of applause to the more solid recompense which the virtuous man finds in the recollection of his own motives. Mr. Severn can dispense with a reward from ‘such stuff as dreams are made of.’ His conduct is a golden augury of the success of his future career — may the unextinguished Spirit of his illustrious friend animate the creations of his pencil, and plead against Oblivion for his name!


I weep for Adonais — he is dead!

O, weep for Adonais! though our tears

Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!

And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years


To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,

And teach them thine own sorrow, say: “With me

Died Adonais; till the Future dares

Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be

An echo and a light unto eternity!”


Where wert thou, mighty Mother, when he lay,

When thy Son lay, pierced by the shaft which flies

In darkness? where was lorn Urania

When Adonais died? With veiled eyes,

‘Mid listening Echoes, in her Paradise


She sate, while one, with soft enamoured breath,

Rekindled all the fading melodies,

With which, like flowers that mock the corse beneath,

He had adorned and hid the coming bulk of Death.


Oh, weep for Adonais — he is dead!


Wake, melancholy Mother, wake and weep!

Yet wherefore? Quench within their burning bed

Thy fiery tears, and let thy loud heart keep

Like his, a mute and uncomplaining sleep;

For he is gone, where all things wise and fair


Descend; — oh, dream not that the amorous Deep

Will yet restore him to the vital air;

Death feeds on his mute voice, and laughs at our despair.


Most musical of mourners, weep again!

Lament anew, Urania! — He died,


Who was the Sire of an immortal strain,

Blind, old and lonely, when his country’s pride,

The priest, the slave, and the liberticide,

Trampled and mocked with many a loathed rite

Of lust and blood; he went, unterrified,


Into the gulf of death; but his clear Sprite

Yet reigns o’er earth; the third among the sons of light.


Most musical of mourners, weep anew!

Not all to that bright station dared to climb;

And happier they their happiness who knew,


Whose tapers yet burn through that night of time

In which suns perished; others more sublime,

Struck by the envious wrath of man or god,

Have sunk, extinct in their refulgent prime;

And some yet live, treading the thorny road,


Which leads, through toil and hate, to Fame’s serene abode.


But now, thy youngest, dearest one, has perished —

The nursling of thy widowhood, who grew,

Like a pale flower by some sad maiden cherished,

And fed with true-love tears, instead of dew;


Most musical of mourners, weep anew!

Thy extreme hope, the loveliest and the last,

The bloom, whose petals nipped before they blew

Died on the promise of the fruit, is waste;

The broken lily lies — the storm is overpast.


To that high Capital, where kingly Death

Keeps his pale court in beauty and decay,

He came; and bought, with price of purest breath,

A grave among the eternal. — Come away!

Haste, while the vault of blue Italian day


Is yet his fitting charnel-roof! while still

He lies, as if in dewy sleep he lay;

Awake him not! surely he takes his fill

Of deep and liquid rest, forgetful of all ill.


He will awake no more, oh, never more! —


Within the twilight chamber spreads apace

The shadow of white Death, and at the door

Invisible Corruption waits to trace

His extreme way to her dim dwelling-place;

The eternal Hunger sits, but pity and awe


Soothe her pale rage, nor dares she to deface

So fair a prey, till darkness and the law

Of change, shall o’er his sleep the mortal curtain draw.


Oh, weep for Adonais! — The quick Dreams,

The passion-winged Ministers of thought,


Who were his flocks, whom near the living streams

Of his young spirit he fed, and whom he taught

The love which was its music, wander not —

Wander no more, from kindling brain to brain,

But droop there, whence they sprung; and mourn their lot


Round the cold heart, where, after their sweet pain,

They ne’er will gather strength, or find a home again.


And one with trembling hands clasps his cold head,

And fans him with her moonlight wings, and cries;

‘Our love, our hope, our sorrow, is not dead;


See, on the silken fringe of his faint eyes,

Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies

A tear some Dream has loosened from his brain.’

Lost Angel of a ruined Paradise!

She knew not ’twas her own; as with no stain


She faded, like a cloud which had outwept its rain.


One from a lucid urn of starry dew

Washed his light limbs as if embalming them;

Another clipped her profuse locks, and threw

The wreath upon him, like an anadem,


Which frozen tears instead of pearls begem;

Another in her wilful grief would break

Her bow and winged reeds, as if to stem

A greater loss with one which was more weak;

And dull the barbed fire against his frozen cheek.


Another Splendour on his mouth alit,

That mouth, whence it was wont to draw the breath

Which gave it strength to pierce the guarded wit,

And pass into the panting heart beneath

With lightning and with music: the damp death


Quenched its caress upon his icy lips;

And, as a dying meteor stains a wreath

Of moonlight vapour, which the cold night clips,

It flushed through his pale limbs, and passed to its eclipse.


And others came . . . Desires and Adorations,


Winged Persuasions and veiled Destinies,

Splendours, and Glooms, and glimmering Incarnations

Of hopes and fears, and twilight Phantasies;

And Sorrow, with her family of Sighs,

And Pleasure, blind with tears, led by the gleam


Of her own dying smile instead of eyes,

Came in slow pomp; — the moving pomp might seem

Like pageantry of mist on an autumnal stream.


All he had loved, and moulded into thought,

From shape, and hue, and odour, and sweet sound,


Lamented Adonais. Morning sought

Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound,

Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,

Dimmed the aereal eyes that kindle day;

Afar the melancholy thunder moaned,


Pale Ocean in unquiet slumber lay,

And the wild Winds flew round, sobbing in their dismay.


Lost Echo sits amid the voiceless mountains,

And feeds her grief with his remembered lay,

And will no more reply to winds or fountains,


Or amorous birds perched on the young green spray,

Or herdsman’s horn, or bell at closing day;

Since she can mimic not his lips, more dear

Than those for whose disdain she pined away

Into a shadow of all sounds:— a drear


Murmur, between their songs, is all the woodmen hear.


Grief made the young Spring wild, and she threw down

Her kindling buds, as if she Autumn were,

Or they dead leaves; since her delight is flown,

For whom should she have waked the sullen year?


To Phoebus was not Hyacinth so dear

Nor to himself Narcissus, as to both

Thou, Adonais: wan they stand and sere

Amid the faint companions of their youth,

With dew all turned to tears; odour, to sighing ruth.


Thy spirit’s sister, the lorn nightingale

Mourns not her mate with such melodious pain;

Not so the eagle, who like thee could scale

Heaven, and could nourish in the sun’s domain

Her mighty youth with morning, doth complain,


Soaring and screaming round her empty nest,

As Albion wails for thee: the curse of Cain

Light on his head who pierced thy innocent breast,

And scared the angel soul that was its earthly guest!


Ah, woe is me! Winter is come and gone,


But grief returns with the revolving year;

The airs and streams renew their joyous tone;

The ants, the bees, the swallows reappear;

Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Seasons’ bier;

The amorous birds now pair in every brake,


And build their mossy homes in field and brere;

And the green lizard, and the golden snake,

Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake.


Through wood and stream and field and hill and Ocean

A quickening life from the Earth’s heart has burst


As it has ever done, with change and motion,

From the great morning of the world when first

God dawned on Chaos; in its stream immersed,

The lamps of Heaven flash with a softer light;

All baser things pant with life’s sacred thirst;


Diffuse themselves; and spend in love’s delight,

The beauty and the joy of their renewed might.


The leprous corpse, touched by this spirit tender,

Exhales itself in flowers of gentle breath;

Like incarnations of the stars, when splendour


Is changed to fragrance, they illumine death

And mock the merry worm that wakes beneath;

Nought we know, dies. Shall that alone which knows

Be as a sword consumed before the sheath

By sightless lightning? — the intense atom glows


A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose.


Alas! that all we loved of him should be,

But for our grief, as if it had not been,

And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me!

Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene


The actors or spectators? Great and mean

Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow.

As long as skies are blue, and fields are green,

Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow,

Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow.


HE will awake no more, oh, never more! ‘Wake thou,’ cried Misery, ‘childless Mother, rise

Out of thy sleep, and slake, in thy heart’s core,

A wound more fierce than his, with tears and sighs.’

And all the Dreams that watched Urania’s eyes,


And all the Echoes whom their sister’s song

Had held in holy silence, cried: ‘Arise!’

Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung,

From her ambrosial rest the fading Splendour sprung.


She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs


Out of the East, and follows wild and drear

The golden Day, which, on eternal wings,

Even as a ghost abandoning a bier,

Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear

So struck, so roused, so rapped Urania;


So saddened round her like an atmosphere

Of stormy mist; so swept her on her way

Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay.


Out of her secret Paradise she sped,

Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel,


And human hearts, which to her aery tread

Yielding not, wounded the invisible

Palms of her tender feet where’er they fell:

And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they,

Rent the soft Form they never could repel,


Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May,

Paved with eternal flowers that undeserving way.


In the death-chamber for a moment Death,

Shamed by the presence of that living Might,

Blushed to annihilation, and the breath


Revisited those lips, and Life’s pale light

Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear delight.

‘Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless,

As silent lightning leaves the starless night!

Leave me not!’ cried Urania: her distress


Roused Death: Death rose and smiled, and met her vain caress.


‘Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again;

Kiss me, so long but as a kiss may live;

And in my heartless breast and burning brain

That word, that kiss, shall all thoughts else survive,


With food of saddest memory kept alive,

Now thou art dead, as if it were a part

Of thee, my Adonais! I would give

All that I am to be as thou now art!

But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart!


‘O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert,

Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men

Too soon, and with weak hands though mighty heart

Dare the unpastured dragon in his den?

Defenceless as thou wert, oh, where was then


Wisdom the mirrored shield, or scorn the spear?

Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when

Thy spirit should have filled its crescent sphere,

The monsters of life’s waste had fled from thee like deer.


‘The herded wolves, bold only to pursue;


The obscene ravens, clamorous o’er the dead;

The vultures to the conqueror’s banner true

Who feed where Desolation first has fed,

And whose wings rain contagion; — how they fled,

When, like Apollo, from his golden bow


The Pythian of the age one arrow sped

And smiled! — The spoilers tempt no second blow,

They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low.


‘The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn;

He sets, and each ephemeral insect then


Is gathered into death without a dawn,

And the immortal stars awake again;

So is it in the world of living men:

A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight

Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when


It sinks, the swarms that dimmed or shared its light

Leave to its kindred lamps the spirit’s awful night.’


Thus ceased she: and the mountain shepherds came,

Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent;

The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame


Over his living head like Heaven is bent,

An early but enduring monument,

Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song

In sorrow; from her wilds Ierne sent

The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong,


And Love taught Grief to fall like music from his tongue.


Midst others of less note, came one frail Form,

A phantom among men; companionless

As the last cloud of an expiring storm

Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,


Had gazed on Nature’s naked loveliness,

Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray

With feeble steps o’er the world’s wilderness,

And his own thoughts, along that rugged way,

Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey.


A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift —

A Love in desolation masked; — a Power

Girt round with weakness; — it can scarce uplift

The weight of the superincumbent hour;

It is a dying lamp, a falling shower,


A breaking billow; — even whilst we speak

Is it not broken? On the withering flower

The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek

The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break.


His head was bound with pansies overblown,


And faded violets, white, and pied, and blue;

And a light spear topped with a cypress cone,

Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew

Yet dripping with the forest’s noonday dew,

Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart


Shook the weak hand that grasped it; of that crew

He came the last, neglected and apart;

A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter’s dart.


All stood aloof, and at his partial moan

Smiled through their tears; well knew that gentle band


Who in another’s fate now wept his own,

As in the accents of an unknown land

He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scanned

The Stranger’s mien, and murmured: ‘Who art thou?’

He answered not, but with a sudden hand


Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow,

Which was like Cain’s or Christ’s — oh! that it should be so!


What softer voice is hushed over the dead?

Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown?

What form leans sadly o’er the white death-bed,


In mockery of monumental stone,

The heavy heart heaving without a moan?

If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise,

Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the departed one,

Let me not vex, with inharmonious sighs,


The silence of that heart’s accepted sacrifice.


Our Adonais has drunk poison — oh!

What deaf and viperous murderer could crown

Life’s early cup with such a draught of woe?

The nameless worm would now itself disown:


It felt, yet could escape, the magic tone

Whose prelude held all envy, hate and wrong,

But what was howling in one breast alone,

Silent with expectation of the song,

Whose master’s hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung.


Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame!

Live! fear no heavier chastisement from me,

Thou noteless blot on a remembered name!

But be thyself, and know thyself to be!

And ever at thy season be thou free


To spill the venom when thy fangs o’erflow;

Remorse and Self-contempt shall cling to thee;

Hot Shame shall burn upon thy secret brow,

And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt — as now.


Nor let us weep that our delight is fled


Far from these carrion kites that scream below;

He wakes or sleeps with the enduring dead;

Thou canst not soar where he is sitting now —

Dust to the dust! but the pure spirit shall flow

Back to the burning fountain whence it came,


A portion of the Eternal, which must glow

Through time and change, unquenchably the same,

Whilst thy cold embers choke the sordid hearth of shame.


Peace, peace! he is not dead, he doth not sleep —

He hath awakened from the dream of life —


’Tis we, who lost in stormy visions, keep

With phantoms an unprofitable strife,

And in mad trance, strike with our spirit’s knife

Invulnerable nothings. — WE decay

Like corpses in a charnel; fear and grief


Convulse us and consume us day by day,

And cold hopes swarm like worms within our living clay.


He has outsoared the shadow of our night;

Envy and calumny and hate and pain,

And that unrest which men miscall delight,


Can touch him not and torture not again;

From the contagion of the world’s slow stain

He is secure, and now can never mourn

A heart grown cold, a head grown gray in vain;

Nor, when the spirit’s self has ceased to burn,


With sparkless ashes load an unlamented urn.


He lives, he wakes —’tis Death is dead, not he;

Mourn not for Adonais. — Thou young Dawn,

Turn all thy dew to splendour, for from thee

The spirit thou lamentest is not gone;


Ye caverns and ye forests, cease to moan!

Cease, ye faint flowers and fountains, and thou Air,

Which like a mourning veil thy scarf hadst thrown

O’er the abandoned Earth, now leave it bare

Even to the joyous stars which smile on its despair!


He is made one with Nature: there is heard

His voice in all her music, from the moan

Of thunder, to the song of night’s sweet bird;

He is a presence to be felt and known

In darkness and in light, from herb and stone,


Spreading itself where’er that Power may move

Which has withdrawn his being to its own;

Which wields the world with never-wearied love,

Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above.


He is a portion of the loveliness


Which once he made more lovely: he doth bear

His part, while the one Spirit’s plastic stress

Sweeps through the dull dense world, compelling there

All new successions to the forms they wear;

Torturing th’ unwilling dross that checks its flight


To its own likeness, as each mass may bear;

And bursting in its beauty and its might

From trees and beasts and men into the Heaven’s light.


The splendours of the firmament of time

May be eclipsed, but are extinguished not;


Like stars to their appointed height they climb,

And death is a low mist which cannot blot

The brightness it may veil. When lofty thought

Lifts a young heart above its mortal lair,

And love and life contend in it, for what


Shall be its earthly doom, the dead live there

And move like winds of light on dark and stormy air.


The inheritors of unfulfilled renown

Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought,

Far in the Unapparent. Chatterton


Rose pale — his solemn agony had not

Yet faded from him; Sidney, as he fought

And as he fell and as he lived and loved

Sublimely mild, a Spirit without spot,

Arose; and Lucan, by his death approved:


Oblivion as they rose shrank like a thing reproved.


And many more, whose names on Earth are dark,

But whose transmitted effluence cannot die

So long as fire outlives the parent spark,

Rose, robed in dazzling immortality.


‘Thou art become as one of us,’ they cry,

‘It was for thee yon kingless sphere has long

Swung blind in unascended majesty,

Silent alone amid a Heaven of Song.

Assume thy winged throne, thou Vesper of our throng!’


Who mourns for Adonais? Oh, come forth,

Fond wretch! and know thyself and him aright.

Clasp with thy panting soul the pendulous Earth;

As from a centre, dart thy spirit’s light

Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might


Satiate the void circumference: then shrink

Even to a point within our day and night;

And keep thy heart light lest it make thee sink

When hope has kindled hope, and lured thee to the brink.


Or go to Rome, which is the sepulchre,


Oh, not of him, but of our joy: ’tis nought

That ages, empires and religions there

Lie buried in the ravage they have wrought;

For such as he can lend — they borrow not

Glory from those who made the world their prey;


And he is gathered to the kings of thought

Who waged contention with their time’s decay,

And of the past are all that cannot pass away.


Go thou to Rome — at once the Paradise,

The grave, the city, and the wilderness;


And where its wrecks like shattered mountains rise,

And flowering weeds, and fragrant copses dress

The bones of Desolation’s nakedness

Pass, till the spirit of the spot shall lead

Thy footsteps to a slope of green access


Where, like an infant’s smile, over the dead

A light of laughing flowers along the grass is spread;


And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time

Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand;

And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime,


Pavilioning the dust of him who planned

This refuge for his memory, doth stand

Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath,

A field is spread, on which a newer band

Have pitched in Heaven’s smile their camp of death,


Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath.


Here pause: these graves are all too young as yet

To have outgrown the sorrow which consigned

Its charge to each; and if the seal is set,

Here, on one fountain of a mourning mind,

Break it not thou! too surely shalt thou find

Thine own well full, if thou returnest home,

Of tears and gall. From the world’s bitter wind

Seek shelter in the shadow of the tomb.

What Adonais is, why fear we to become?


The One remains, the many change and pass;

Heaven’s light forever shines, Earth’s shadows fly;

Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,

Stains the white radiance of Eternity,

Until Death tramples it to fragments. — Die,

If thou wouldst be with that which thou dost seek!

Follow where all is fled! — Rome’s azure sky,

Flowers, ruins, statues, music, words, are weak

The glory they transfuse with fitting truth to speak.


Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart?

Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here

They have departed; thou shouldst now depart!

A light is passed from the revolving year,

And man, and woman; and what still is dear

Attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither.

The soft sky smiles — the low wind whispers near:

’Tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither,

No more let Life divide what Death can join together.


That Light whose smile kindles the Universe,

That Beauty in which all things work and move,

That Benediction which the eclipsing Curse

Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love

Which through the web of being blindly wove

By man and beast and earth and air and sea,

Burns bright or dim, as each are mirrors of

The fire for which all thirst; now beams on me,

Consuming the last clouds of cold mortality.


The breath whose might I have invoked in song

Descends on me; my spirit’s bark is driven,

Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng

Whose sails were never to the tempest given;

The massy earth and sphered skies are riven!

I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar;

Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of Heaven,

The soul of Adonais, like a star,


Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are.

_49 true-love]true love editions 1821, 1839.

_72 Of change, etc. so editions 1829 (Galignani), 1839; Of mortal change, shall fill the grave which is her maw edition 1821.

_81 or edition 1821; nor edition 1839.

_105 his edition 1821; its edition 1839.

_126 round edition 1821; around edition 1839.

_143 faint companions edition 1839; drooping comrades edition 1821.

_204 See Editor’s Note.

_252 lying low edition 1839; as they go edition 1821.

Cancelled Passages of Adonais.

Passages of the Preface.

. . . the expression of my indignation and sympathy. I will allow myself a first and last word on the subject of calumny as it relates to me. As an author I have dared and invited censure. If I understand myself, I have written neither for profit nor for fame. I have employed my poetical compositions and publications simply as the instruments of that sympathy between myself and others which the ardent and unbounded love I cherished for my kind incited me to acquire. I expected all sorts of stupidity and insolent contempt from those . . .

. . . These compositions (excepting the tragedy of “The Cenci”, which was written rather to try my powers than to unburthen my full heart) are insufficiently . . . commendation than perhaps they deserve, even from their bitterest enemies; but they have not attained any corresponding popularity. As a man, I shrink from notice and regard; the ebb and flow of the world vexes me; I desire to be left in peace. Persecution, contumely, and calumny have been heaped upon me in profuse measure; and domestic conspiracy and legal oppression have violated in my person the most sacred rights of nature and humanity. The bigot will say it was the recompense of my errors; the man of the world will call it the result of my imprudence; but never upon one head . . .

. . . Reviewers, with some rare exceptions, are a most stupid and malignant race. As a bankrupt thief turns thieftaker in despair, so an unsuccessful author turns critic. But a young spirit panting for fame, doubtful of its powers, and certain only of its aspirations, is ill qualified to assign its true value to the sneer of this world. He knows not that such stuff as this is of the abortive and monstrous births which time consumes as fast as it produces. He sees the truth and falsehood, the merits and demerits, of his case inextricably entangled . . . No personal offence should have drawn from me this public comment upon such stuff . . .

. . . The offence of this poor victim seems to have consisted solely in his intimacy with Leigh Hunt, Mr. Hazlitt, and some other enemies of despotism and superstition. My friend Hunt has a very hard skull to crack, and will take a deal of killing. I do not know much of Mr. Hazlitt, but . . .

. . . I knew personally but little of Keats; but on the news of his situation I wrote to him, suggesting the propriety of trying the Italian climate, and inviting him to join me. Unfortunately he did not allow me . . .

Passages of the Poem.

And ever as he went he swept a lyre

Of unaccustomed shape, and . . . strings

Now like the . . . of impetuous fire,

Which shakes the forest with its murmurings,


Now like the rush of the aereal wings

Of the enamoured wind among the treen,

Whispering unimaginable things,

And dying on the streams of dew serene,

Which feed the unmown meads with ever-during green.

. . .


And the green Paradise which western waves

Embosom in their ever-wailing sweep,

Talking of freedom to their tongueless caves,

Or to the spirits which within them keep

A record of the wrongs which, though they sleep,


Die not, but dream of retribution, heard

His hymns, and echoing them from steep to steep,

Kept —

. . .

And then came one of sweet and earnest looks,

Whose soft smiles to his dark and night-like eyes


Were as the clear and ever-living brooks

Are to the obscure fountains whence they rise,

Showing how pure they are: a Paradise

Of happy truth upon his forehead low

Lay, making wisdom lovely, in the guise


Of earth-awakening morn upon the brow

Of star-deserted heaven, while ocean gleams below.

His song, though very sweet, was low and faint,

A simple strain —

. . .

A mighty Phantasm, half concealed


In darkness of his own exceeding light,

Which clothed his awful presence unrevealed,

Charioted on the . . . night

Of thunder-smoke, whose skirts were chrysolite.

And like a sudden meteor, which outstrips


The splendour-winged chariot of the sun,

. . . eclipse

The armies of the golden stars, each one

Pavilioned in its tent of light — all strewn

Over the chasms of blue night —

[Published by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862.]

Last updated Sunday, March 27, 2016 at 12:00