The Complete Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley — Volume 2 by Percy Bysshe Shelley
page 43 of 374 (11%)
page 43 of 374 (11%)
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Have piled: dome, pyramid, and pinnacle,
A city of death, distinct with many a tower _105 And wall impregnable of beaming ice. Yet not a city, but a flood of ruin Is there, that from the boundaries of the sky Rolls its perpetual stream; vast pines are strewing Its destined path, or in the mangled soil _110 Branchless and shattered stand; the rocks, drawn down From yon remotest waste, have overthrown The limits of the dead and living world, Never to be reclaimed. The dwelling-place Of insects, beasts, and birds, becomes its spoil; _115 Their food and their retreat for ever gone, So much of life and joy is lost. The race Of man flies far in dread; his work and dwelling Vanish, like smoke before the tempest's stream, And their place is not known. Below, vast caves _120 Shine in the rushing torrents' restless gleam, Which from those secret chasms in tumult welling Meet in the vale, and one majestic River, The breath and blood of distant lands, for ever Rolls its loud waters to the ocean waves, _125 Breathes its swift vapours to the circling air. 5. Mont Blanc yet gleams on high--the power is there, The still and solemn power of many sights, And many sounds, and much of life and death. In the calm darkness of the moonless nights, _130 In the lone glare of day, the snows descend |
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