The Witch Of Atlas

The Witch Of Atlas
by Percy Bysshe Shelley

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And o'er thy head did beat its wings for fame, And in thy sight its fading plumes display; The watery bow burned in the evening flame. But the shower fell, the swift Sun went his way-- And that is dead.--O, let me not believe That anything of mine is fit to live!

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And o'er thy head did beat its wings for fame, And in thy sight its fading plumes display; The watery bow burned in the evening flame. But the shower fell, the swift Sun went his way-- And that is dead.--O, let me not believe That anything of mine is fit to live!

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