The Daemon of the world Part I How wonderful is death Death and his brother sleep! One pale as yonder wan and horned moon with pale lips of lurid blue, The other glowing like the vital morn when throned on oceans wave it breathes over the world; Yet both so passing strange and wonderful! Hath then the iron-sceptered skeleton, Whose regin is in the tainted sepulchres To the hell dogs that couch beneath his throne Cast that fair prey? Must that divinest form Which love and admiration cannot view Without a beating heart, whose azure veins Steal like dark streams along a field of snow, whose outline is as fair as marble clothed In light of some sublimest mind, Decay? Nor putrefactions breath Leave aught of this pure spectacle But loathesomeness and ruin? Spare aught but a dark theme, On which the lightest heart might moralize? Or is it but that downy winged slumbers Have charmed their nurse coy silence near her lids To watch their own repose? Will they, when mornings beam Flows through those wells of light Seek far from noise and day some western cave, Where woods and streams with soft and pausing winds A lulling murmur weave? Ianthe doth not sleep The dreamless sleep of death; Nor in her moonlight chamber silently Doth Henry hear her regular pulses throb, Or mark her delicate cheek With interchange of hues mock the broad moon, Outwatching weary night, Wthout assured reward Her dewy eyes are closed; On their translucent lids whose texture fine Scarce hides the dark blue orbs that burn below With unapparent fire The baby sleep is pillowed Her golden tresses shade The bosoms stainless pride Twining like tendrils of the parasite Around a marble column. Percy Shelly