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

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