Fuck Yeah, Romantic Poetry!
"Language has not the power to speak what Love indites:
The soul lies buried in the ink that writes."
- John Clare
 
Read the Printed Word!

'The Sensitive Plant'

Whether the sensitive Plant, or that
Which within its boughs like a Spirit sat,
Ere its outward form had known decay,
Now felt this change, I cannot say.

Whether that Lady’s gentle mind,
No longer with the form combined
Which scattered love, as stars do light,
Found sadness, where it left delight,

I cannot guess; but in this life
Of error, ignorance, and strife,
Where nothing is, but all things seem,
And we the shadows of the dream,

It is a modest creed,and yet
Pleasant if one considers it,
To own that death itself must be,
Like all the rest, a mockery.

That garden sweet, that lady fair,
And all sweet shapes and odours there,
In truth have never passed away;
'Tis we, 'tis ours, are changed; not they.

For love, and beauty and delight,
There is no death nor change; their might
Exceeds our organs, which endure
No light, being themselves obscure.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

  1. amomentofstillness reblogged this from fuckyeahromanticpoetry
  2. venividiamavi reblogged this from fuckyeahromanticpoetry
  3. somdomite reblogged this from fuckyeahromanticpoetry
  4. fuckyeahromanticpoetry posted this

theme ©