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The Sensitive Plant

Author of work:
Percy Bysshe Shelley
PART 1.A Sensitive Plant in a garden grew,And the young winds fed it with silver dew,And it opened its fan-like leaves to the light.And closed them beneath the kisses of Night.
And the Spring arose on the garden fair,Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;And each flower and herb on Earth’s dark breastRose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
But none ever trembled and panted with blissIn the garden, the field, or the wilderness, Like a doe in the noontide with love’s sweet want,As the companionless Sensitive Plant.
The snowdrop, and then the violet,Arose from the ground with warm rain wet,And their breath was mixed with fresh odour, sentFrom the turf, like the voice and the instrument.
Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip tall,And narcissi, the fairest among them all,Who gaze on their eyes in the stream’s recess,Till they die of their own dear loveliness;
And the Naiad-like lily of the vale,Whom youth makes so fair and passion so paleThat the light of its tremulous bells is seenThrough their pavilions of tender green;
And the hyacinth purple, and white, and blue,Which flung from its bells a sweet peal anewOf music so delicate, soft, and intense,It was felt like an odour within the sense;
And the rose like a nymph to the bath addressed,Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, Till, fold after fold, to the fainting airThe soul of her beauty and love lay bare:
And the wand-like lily, which lifted up,As a Maenad, its moonlight-coloured cup,Till the fiery star, which is its eye,Gazed through clear dew on the tender sky;
And the jessamine faint, and the sweet tuberose,The sweetest flower for scent that blows;And all rare blossoms from every climeGrew in that garden in perfect prime.
And on the stream whose inconstant bosomWas pranked, under boughs of embowering blossom,With golden and green light, slanting throughTheir heaven of many a tangled hue,
Broad water-lilies lay tremulously,And starry river-buds glimmered by,And around them the soft stream did glide and danceWith a motion of sweet sound and radiance.
And the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss,Which led through the garden along and across,Some open at once to the sun and the breeze,Some lost among bowers of blossoming trees,
Were all paved with daisies and delicate bellsAs fair as the fabulous asphodels,And flow’rets which, drooping as day drooped too,Fell into pavilions, white, purple, and blue,To roof the glow-worm from the evening dew.
And from this undefiled ParadiseThe flowers (as an infant’s awakening eyesSmile on its mother, whose singing sweetCan first lull, and at last must awaken it),
When Heaven’s blithe winds had unfolded them,As mine-lamps enkindle a hidden gem,Shone smiling to Heaven, and every oneShared joy in the light of the gentle sun;
For each one was interpenetratedWith the light and the odour its neighbour shed,Like young lovers whom youth and love make dearWrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere.
But the Sensitive Plant which could give small fruit Of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root,Received more than all, it loved more than ever,Where none wanted but it, could belong to the giver,—
For the Sensitive Plant has no bright flower;Radiance and odour are not its dower;It loves, even like Love, its deep heart is full,It desires what it has not, the Beautiful!
The light winds which from unsustaining wingsShed the music of many murmurings;The beams which dart from many a starOf the flowers whose hues they bear afar;
The plumed insects swift and free,Like golden boats on a sunny sea,Laden with light and odour, which passOver the gleam of the living grass;
The unseen clouds of the dew, which lieLike fire in the flowers till the sun rides high,Then wander like spirits among the spheres,Each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears;
The quivering vapours of dim noontide, Which like a sea o’er the warm earth glide,In which every sound, and odour, and beam,Move, as reeds in a single stream;
Each and all like ministering angels wereFor the Sensitive Plant sweet joy to bear,Whilst the lagging hours of the day went byLike windless clouds o’er a tender sky.
And when evening descended from Heaven above,And the Earth was all rest, and the air was all love,And delight, though less bright, was far more deep,And the day’s veil fell from the world of sleep,
And the beasts, and the birds, and the insects were drownedIn an ocean of dreams without a sound;Whose waves never mark, though they ever impressThe light sand which paves it, consciousness;
(Only overhead the sweet nightingaleEver sang more sweet as the day might fail,And snatches of its Elysian chantWere mixed with the dreams of the Sensitive Plant);--
The Sensitive Plant was the earliest Upgathered into the bosom of rest;A sweet child weary of its delight,The feeblest and yet the favourite,Cradled within the embrace of Night.
There was a Power in this sweet place,An Eve in this Eden; a ruling GraceWhich to the flowers, did they waken or dream,Was as God is to the starry scheme.
A Lady, the wonder of her kind,Whose form was upborne by a lovely mindWhich, dilating, had moulded her mien and motionLike a sea-flower unfolded beneath the ocean,
Tended the garden from morn to even:And the meteors of that sublunar Heaven,Like the lamps of the air when Night walks forth,Laughed round her footsteps up from the Earth!
She had no companion of mortal race,But her tremulous breath and her flushing faceTold, whilst the morn kissed the sleep from her eyes,That her dreams were less slumber than Paradise:
As if some bright Spirit for her sweet sakeHad deserted Heaven while the stars were awake,As if yet around her he lingering were,Though the veil of daylight concealed him from her.
Her step seemed to pity the grass it pressed;You might hear by the heaving of her breast,That the coming and going of the windBrought pleasure there and left passion behind.
And wherever her aery footstep trod,Her trailing hair from the grassy sodErased its light vestige, with shadowy sweep,Like a sunny storm o’er the dark green deep.
I doubt not the flowers of that garden sweetRejoiced in the sound of her gentle feet;I doubt not they felt the spirit that cameFrom her glowing fingers through all their frame.
She sprinkled bright water from the streamOn those that were faint with the sunny beam;And out of the cups of the heavy flowers She emptied the rain of the thunder-showers.
She lifted their heads with her tender hands,And sustained them with rods and osier-bands;If the flowers had been her own infants, sheCould never have nursed them more tenderly.
And all killing insects and gnawing worms,And things of obscene and unlovely forms,She bore, in a basket of Indian woof,Into the rough woods far aloof,--
In a basket, of grasses and wild-flowers full, The freshest her gentle hands could pullFor the poor banished insects, whose intent,Although they did ill, was innocent.
But the bee and the beamlike ephemerisWhose path is the lightning's, and soft moths that kissThe sweet lips of the flowers, and harm not, did sheMake her attendant angels be.
And many an antenatal tomb,Where butterflies dream of the life to come,She left clinging round the smooth and darkEdge of the odorous cedar bark.
This fairest creature from earliest SpringThus moved through the garden ministeringMi the sweet season of Summertide,And ere the first leaf looked brown—she died!
Three days the flowers of the garden fair,Like stars when the moon is awakened, were,Or the waves of Baiae, ere luminousShe floats up through the smoke of Vesuvius.
And on the fourth, the Sensitive PlantFelt the sound of the funeral chant,And the steps of the bearers, heavy and slow,And the sobs of the mourners, deep and low;
The weary sound and the heavy breath,And the silent motions of passing death,And the smell, cold, oppressive, and dank,Sent through the pores of the coffin-plank;
The dark grass, and the flowers among the grass,Were bright with tears as the crowd did pass;From their sighs the wind caught a mournful tone, And sate in the pines, and gave groan for groan.
The garden, once fair, became cold and foul,Like the corpse of her who had been its soul,Which at first was lovely as if in sleep,Then slowly changed, till it grew a heap To make men tremble who never weep.
Swift Summer into the Autumn flowed,And frost in the mist of the morning rode,Though the noonday sun looked clear and bright,Mocking the spoil of the secret night.
The rose-leaves, like flakes of crimson snow,Paved the turf and the moss below.The lilies were drooping, and white, and wan,Like the head and the skin of a dying man.
And Indian plants, of scent and hueThe sweetest that ever were fed on dew,Leaf by leaf, day after day,Were massed into the common clay.
And the leaves, brown, yellow, and gray, and red,And white with the whiteness of what is dead, Like troops of ghosts on the dry wind passed;Their whistling noise made the birds aghast.
And the gusty winds waked the winged seeds,Out of their birthplace of ugly weeds,Till they clung round many a sweet flower’s stem, Which rotted into the earth with them.
The water-blooms under the rivuletFell from the stalks on which they were set;And the eddies drove them here and there,As the winds did those of the upper air.
Then the rain came down, and the broken stalksWere bent and tangled across the walks;And the leafless network of parasite bowersMassed into ruin; and all sweet flowers.
Between the time of the wind and the snow All loathliest weeds began to grow,Whose coarse leaves were splashed with many a speck,Like the water-snake’s belly and the toad’s back.
And thistles, and nettles, and darnels rank,And the dock, and henbane, and hemlock dank,Stretched out its long and hollow shank,And stifled the air till the dead wind stank.
And plants, at whose names the verse feels loath,Filled the place with a monstrous undergrowth,Prickly, and pulpous, and blistering, and blue,Livid, and starred with a lurid dew.
And agarics, and fungi, with mildew and mouldStarted like mist from the wet ground cold;Pale, fleshy, as if the decaying deadWith a spirit of growth had been animated!
Spawn, weeds, and filth, a leprous scum,Made the running rivulet thick and dumb,And at its outlet flags huge as stakesDammed it up with roots knotted like water-snakes.
And hour by hour, when the air was still,The vapours arose which have strength to kill;At morn they were seen, at noon they were felt,At night they were darkness no star could melt.
And unctuous meteors from spray to sprayCrept and flitted in broad noonday Unseen; every branch on which they alitBy a venomous blight was burned and bit.
The Sensitive Plant, like one forbid,Wept, and the tears within each lidOf its folded leaves, which together grew,Were changed to a blight of frozen glue.
For the leaves soon fell, and the branches soonBy the heavy axe of the blast were hewn;The sap shrank to the root through every poreAs blood to a heart that will beat no more.
For Winter came: the wind was his whip:One choppy finger was on his lip:He had torn the cataracts from the hillsAnd they clanked at his girdle like manacles;
His breath was a chain which without a soundThe earth, and the air, and the water bound;He came, fiercely driven, in his chariot-throneBy the tenfold blasts of the Arctic zone.
Then the weeds which were forms of living deathFled from the frost to the earth beneath.Their decay and sudden flight from frostWas but like the vanishing of a ghost!
And under the roots of the Sensitive PlantThe moles and the dormice died for want:The birds dropped stiff from the frozen airAnd were caught in the branches naked and bare.
First there came down a thawing rainAnd its dull drops froze on the boughs again;Then there steamed up a freezing dewWhich to the drops of the thaw-rain grew;
And a northern whirlwind, wandering aboutLike a wolf that had smelt a dead child out,Shook the boughs thus laden, and heavy, and stiff,And snapped them off with his rigid griff.
When Winter had gone and Spring came backThe Sensitive Plant was a leafless wreck;But the mandrakes, and toadstools, and docks, and darnels,Rose like the dead from their ruined charnels.
CONCLUSION.Whether the Sensitive Plant, or thatWhich 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 combinedWhich scattered love, as stars do light,Found sadness, where it left delight,
I dare not guess; but in this lifeOf error, ignorance, and strife,Where nothing is, but all things seem,And we the shadows of the dream,
It is a modest creed, and yetPleasant 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 endureNo light, being themselves obscure.

About the author

Percy Bysshe Shelley photo
Percy Bysshe Shelley
324 works

About the poet

Shelley, born the heir to rich estates and the son of an Member of Parliament, went to University College, Oxford in 1810, but in March of the following year he and a friend, Thomas Jefferson Hogg, were both expelled for the suspected authorship of a pamphlet entitled The Necessity of Atheism.

In 1811 he met and eloped to Edinburgh with Harriet Westbrook and, one year later, went with her and her older sister first to Dublin, then to Devon and North Wales, where they stayed for six months into 1813. However, by 1814, and with the birth of two children, their marriage had collapsed and Shelley eloped once again, this time with Mary Godwin.

Along with Mary's step-sister, the couple travelled to France, Switzerland and Germany before returning to London where he took a house with Mary on the edge of Great Windsor Park and wrote Alastor (1816), the poem that first brought him fame.

In 1816 Shelley spent the summer on Lake Geneva with Byron and Mary who had begun work on her Frankenstein. In the autumn of that year Harriet drowned herself in the Serpentine in Hyde Park and Shelley then married Mary and settled with her, in 1817, at Great Marlow, on the Thames. They later travelled to Italy, where Shelley wrote the sonnet Ozymandias (written 1818) and translated Plato's Symposium from the Greek. Shelley himself drowned in a sailing accident in 1822.

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