Lift not the painted veil which those who live Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe With colours idly spread,—behind, lurk Fear And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave Their shadows, o'er the chasm, sightless and drear.
I knew one who had lifted it—he sought,
For his lost heart was tender, things to love,
But found them not, alas! nor was there aught The world contains, the which he could approve.
Through the unheeding many he did move,
A splendour among shadows, a bright blot Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.
Published by Mrs.
Shelley,
Posthumous Poems, 1824.
Our text is that of the Poetical Works, 1839
