By Percy Bysshe Shelley

She moved upon this earth a shape of brightness,

A power, that from its objects scarcely drew

One impulse of her being—in her lightness

Most like some radiant cloud of morning dew,

Which wanders through the waste air’s pathless blue,

To nourish some far desert; she did seem

Beside me, gathering beauty as she grew,

Like the bright shade of some immortal dream

Which walks, when tempest sleeps, the wave of life’s dark stream.”

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