The Complete Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley — Complete

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

BUONA NOTTE.

[Published by Medwin, “The Angler in Wales, or Days and Nights of Sportsmen”, 1834. The text is revised by Rossetti from the Boscombe manuscript.]

1.
‘Buona notte, buona notte!’—Come mai
La notte sara buona senza te?
Non dirmi buona notte,—che tu sai,
La notte sa star buona da per se.

2.
Solinga, scura, cupa, senza speme, _5
La notte quando Lilla m’abbandona;
Pei cuori chi si batton insieme
Ogni notte, senza dirla, sara buona.

3.
Come male buona notte ci suona
Con sospiri e parole interrotte!— _10
Il modo di aver la notte buona
E mai non di dir la buona notte.

NOTES: _2 sara]sia 1834. _4 buona]bene 1834. _9 Come]Quanto 1834.

***

ORPHEUS.

[Published by Dr. Garnett, “Relics of Shelley”, 1862; revised and enlarged by Rossetti, “Complete Poetical Works of P. B. S.”, 1870.]

A:
Not far from hence. From yonder pointed hill,
Crowned with a ring of oaks, you may behold
A dark and barren field, through which there flows,
Sluggish and black, a deep but narrow stream,
Which the wind ripples not, and the fair moon _5
Gazes in vain, and finds no mirror there.
Follow the herbless banks of that strange brook
Until you pause beside a darksome pond,
The fountain of this rivulet, whose gush
Cannot be seen, hid by a rayless night _10
That lives beneath the overhanging rock
That shades the pool—an endless spring of gloom,
Upon whose edge hovers the tender light,
Trembling to mingle with its paramour,—
But, as Syrinx fled Pan, so night flies day, _15
Or, with most sullen and regardless hate,
Refuses stern her heaven-born embrace.
On one side of this jagged and shapeless hill
There is a cave, from which there eddies up
A pale mist, like aereal gossamer, _20
Whose breath destroys all life—awhile it veils
The rock—then, scattered by the wind, it flies
Along the stream, or lingers on the clefts,
Killing the sleepy worms, if aught bide there.
Upon the beetling edge of that dark rock _25
There stands a group of cypresses; not such
As, with a graceful spire and stirring life,
Pierce the pure heaven of your native vale,
Whose branches the air plays among, but not
Disturbs, fearing to spoil their solemn grace; _30
But blasted and all wearily they stand,
One to another clinging; their weak boughs
Sigh as the wind buffets them, and they shake
Beneath its blasts—a weatherbeaten crew!