Rise like lions after slumber In unvanquishable number Shake your chains to earth like dew We are many, they are few - Percy Bysshe Shelley

That orbèd maiden, with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,
Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor
By the midnight breezes strewn.

Alas! that all we loved of him should be, But for our grief, as if it had not been, And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me! Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene The actors or spectators?

I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear, — Till death like sleep might steal on me
And I might feel in the warm air
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.