613. From the Arabic

Percy Bysshe Shelley. 1792-1822

MY faint spirit was sitting in the light
      Of thy looks, my love;
  It panted for thee like the hind at noon
      For the brooks, my love.
Thy barb, whose hoofs outspeed the tempest's flight,
      Bore thee far from me;
  My heart, for my weak feet were weary soon,
      Did companion thee.

Ah! fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed,
      Or the death they bear,
  The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove
      With the wings of care;
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need,
      Shall mine cling to thee,
  Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love,
      It may bring to thee.

The Oxford Book of English Verse, HTML edition