Bright star! would I were as steadfast as thou art

Shanklin,

Isle of Wight, Thursday.

[Postmark, Newport, 3 July, 1819.]

My dearest Lady,

I am glad I had not an opportunity of sending off a Letter which I wrote for you on Tuesday night – ‘twas too much like one out of Rousseau’s Heloise. I am more reasonable this morning. This morning is the only proper time for me to write to a beautiful Girl whom I love so much: for at night, when the lonely day has closed, and the lonely silent, unmusical Chamber is waiting to receive me as into a Sepulchre, then believe me my passion gets entirely the sway, then I would not have you see those Rhapsodies which I once thought it impossible I should ever give way to, and which I have often laughed at in another, for fear you should [think me] either too unhappy or perhaps a little mad.

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O SOLITUDE! if I must with thee dwell, 
Let it not be among the jumbled heap 
Of murky buildings; climb with me the steep,- 
Nature’s observatory - whence the dell, 
Its flowery slopes, its river’s crystal swell, 
May seem a span; let me thy vigils keep 
’Mongst boughs pavillion’d, where the deer’s swift leap 
Startles the wild bee from the fox-glove bell. 
But though I’ll gladly trace these scenes with thee, 
Yet the sweet converse of an innocent mind, 
Whose words are images of thoughts refin’d, 
Is my soul’s pleasure; and it sure must be 
Almost the highest bliss of human-kind, 
When to thy haunts two kindred spirits flee. 

1817

No, no, go not to Lethe, neither twist
Wolf’s-bane, tight-rooted, for its poisonous wine;
Nor suffer thy pale forehead to be kissed
By nightshade, ruby grape of Proserpine;
Make not your rosary of yew-berries,
Nor let the beetle nor the death-moth be
Your mournful Psyche, nor the downy owl
A partner in your sorrow’s mysteries;
For shade to shade will come too drowsily,
And drown the wakeful anguish of the soul.

But when the melancholy fit shall fall
Sudden from heaven like a weeping cloud,
That fosters the droop-headed flowers all,
And hides the green hill in an April shroud;
Then glut thy sorrow on a morning rose,
Or on the rainbow of the salt sand-wave,
Or on the wealth of globed peonies;
Or if thy mistress some rich anger shows,
Imprison her soft hand, and let her rave,
And feed deep, deep upon her peerless eyes.

She dwells with Beauty -Beauty that must die;
And Joy, whose hand is ever at his lips
Bidding adieu; and aching Pleasure nigh,
Turning to poison while the bee-mouth sips:
Ay, in the very temple of Delight
Veiled Melancholy has her sovran shrine,
Though seen of none save him whose strenuous tongue
Can burst Joy’s grape against his palate fine:
His soul shall taste the sadness of her might,
And be among her cloudy trophies hung.