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Poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley


The Solitary


I.

Darst thou amid the varied multitude
To live alone, an isolated thing?
To see the busy beings round thee spring,
And care for none; in thy calm solitude,
A flower that scarce breathes in the desert rude
To Zephyrs passing wing?

II.

Not the swart Pariah in some Indian grove,
Lone, lean, and hunted by his brothers hate,
Hath drunk so deep the cup of bitter fate
As that poor wretch who cannot, cannot love:
He bears a load which nothing can remove,
A killing, withering weight.

III.

He smiles--'tis sorrow's deadliest mockery;
He speaks--the cold words flow not from his soul;
He acts like others, drains the genial bowl,--
Yet, yet he longs--although he fears--to die;
He pants to reach what yet he seems to fly,
Dull life's extremest goal.



Percy Bysshe Shelley


Percy Bysshe Shelley's other poems:
  1. From the Arabic, an Imitation
  2. Homer's Hymn to Minerva
  3. I Would Not Be A King
  4. Matilda Gathering Flowers
  5. To Death


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