So Shelley says of
this period, "I was laid asleep, spirit and limb." By a great effort,
however, the next step was taken,--the agonizing one of breaking away
from the bondage of this individual, in order that beauty in all its
forms may appeal to one. Shelley writes,
What storms then shook the ocean of my sleep,
Blotting that moon, whose pale and waning lips
Then shrank as in the sickness of eclipse.
Finally, the dross of its earthly embodiments being burned away by this
renunciation, ideal beauty is revealed to the poet, not merely in a
flash of inspiration, as at the beginning of his quest, but as an
abiding presence in the soul. At least this is the ideal, but, being a
poet, Shelley cannot claim the complete merging with the ideal that the
philosopher possesses. At the supersensual consummation of his love,
Shelley sinks back, only half conceiving of it, and cries,
Woe is me!
The winged words on which my soul would pierce
Into the height of Love's rare universe
Are chains of lead around its flight of fire;
I pant, I sink, I tremble, I expire.
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