Explore "Epipsychidion" by Percy Bysshe Shelley on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Sweet Spirit! Sister of that orphan one, / Whose empire is the name thou weepest on, / In my heart's temple I suspend to thee / These votive wreaths of withered memory.
Poor captive bird! who, from thy narrow cage, / Pourest such music, that it might assuage / The rugged hearts of those who prisoned thee, / Were they not deaf to all sweet melody; / This song shall be thy rose: its petals pale / Are dead, indeed, my adored Nightingale! / But soft and fragrant is the faded blossom, / And it has no thorn left to wound thy bosom.