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   3 Percy Bysshe Shelley


*** NEWFULLDB 2.4M ***

1:I did a rendition of Billie Jean which is on my Soundcloud. I put it on Twitter, and it got about 3000 hits that day. ~ Idris Elba,
2:You don't have to wait for a record company to tell you that you're good or to sign you. You can put your music out on itunes, youtube, soundcloud, so it's kind of a plus, I think. ~ Shanice,
3:If you put a song on SoundCloud for free and it blows up, you'll drop it as a single and maybe get some change off of it, but the real fans are going to be those that come to the shows. ~ Young De,
4:I have a radio show on Sirius XM. I put it up as a free download on my Soundcloud and on iTunes. That's a portal for me once a month, to play songs I know aren't getting played on that station the rest of the week. ~ A Trak,
5:I'm a SoundCloud, online kind of artist. It's not like back in the day when everyone was like linking up physically to do music. But with the album, I did have my first experience with meeting with a producer and us making things from scratch. ~ Cakes da killa,
6:What we’ll be expecting in the Third Wave are specialty platforms that engender a culture of long tail, authentic, not-for-everyone creation and consumption. As noted by Carles, it is already happening in music with networks like Soundcloud and Bandcamp, and we will feel its effects in other online media industries for years to come. ~ Anonymous,
7: I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that collossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
LISTEN HERE: Published by Hunt in The Examiner, January, 1818. Reprinted with Rosalind and Helen, 1819. There is a copy amongst the Shelley MSS. at the Bodleian Library.

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ozymandias
8: I.
The Fountains mingle with the river
And the rivers with the ocean,
The winds of heaven mix for ever
With a sweet emotion;
Nothing in the world is single,
All things by a law devine
In one another's being mingle

Why not I with thine?

See the mountains kiss high heaven
And the waves clasp one another;
No sister-flower would be forgiven
If it disdain'd its brother:
And the sunlight clasps the earth,
And the moonbeams kiss the sea
What are all these kissings worth,
If thou kiss not me?
LISTEN HERE: Published by Leigh Hunt, The Indicator, December 22, 1819. Reprinted by Mrs. Shelley, Posthumous Poems, 1824. Included in the Harvard manuscript book, where it is headed An Anacreontic, and dated 'January, 1820.' Written by Shelley in a copy of Hunt's Literary Pocket-Book, 1819, and presented to Sophia Stacey, December 29, 1820.

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Loves Philosophy
Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
   Alone and palely loitering?
The sedge is withered from the lake,
   And no birds sing.

Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight,
   So haggard and so woe-begone
The squirrel's granary is full,
   And the harvest's done.

I see a lily on thy brow
   With anguish moist and fever dew,
And on thy cheek a fading rose
   Fast withereth too.

I met a lady in the meads,
   Full beautiful, a faery's child:
Her hair was long, her foot was ligh,
   And her eyes were wild.

I set her on my pacing steed,
   And nothing else saw all day long;
For sideways would she lean, and sing
   A faery's song.

I made a garland for her head,
   And bracelets too, and fragrant zone;
She looked at me as she did love,
   And made sweet moan.

She found me roots of relish sweet,
   And honey wild, and manna dew,
And sure in language strange she said,
   "I love thee true!"

She took me to her elfin grot,
   And there she gazed and sighed deep,
And there I shut her wild, sad eyes-
   So kissed to sleep.

And there we slumbered on the moss,
   And there I dreamed, ah! woe betide,
The latest dream I ever dreamed
   On the cold hill side.

I saw pale kings, and princes too,
   Pale warriors, death-pale were they all;
Who cried-"La belle Dame sans merci
   Hath thee in thrall!"

I saw their starved lips in the gloam,
   With horrid warning gaped wide,
And I awoke and found me here,
   On the cold hill side.

And that is why I sojourn here,
   Alone and palely loitering,
Though the sedge is withered from the lake,
   And no birds sing.
This poem was first published by Leigh Hunt in The Indicator for the 10th of May 1820 (No. XXXI), with some introductory remarks. The signature used by Keats on this occasion, as on that of issuing the Sonnet On A Dream was "Caviare." In 1848 Lord Houghton gave the poem among the Literary Remains, apparently from a manuscript source, for the variations are very considerable. I think there can be no doubt that The Indicator version is a revision of the other. ...In one of the late Gabriel Rossetti's letters he characterizes this poem as "the wondrous Belle Dame sans Merci." I haveno positive information as to the date at which it was composed; but I am fain to regard it as a crowning essay in perfect imaginative utterance, written between the poet's partial recovery and his departure to seek health and find a grave in Italy.'
~ Poetical Works of John Keats, ed. H. Buxton Forman, Crowell publ. 1895. by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes
~ John Keats, La Belle Dame Sans Merci
O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow

Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With living hues and odors plain and hill:

Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer and preserver; hear, oh, hear!

Thou on whose stream, 'mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,

Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine aery surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head

Of some fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge

Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, hear!

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams,

Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For whose path the Atlantic's level powers

Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The sapless foliage of the ocean, know

Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear!

If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave to pant beneath thy power, and share

The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were as in my boyhood, and could be

The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce seemed a vision; I would ne'er have striven

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed
One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.

Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies

Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone,
Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, Spirit fierce,
My spirit! Be thou me, impetuous one!

Drive my dead thoughts over the universe
Like withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,

Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
Poem form:- sonnet repeated five times. Meter:- Iambic pentameter. Rhyme:- Terza Rima.

'This poem was conceived and chiefly written in a wood that skirts the Arno, near Florence, and on a day when that tempestuous wind, whose temperature is at once mild and animating, was collecting the vapours which pour down the autumnal rains. They began, as I foresaw, at sunset with a violent tempest of hail and rain, attended by that magnificent thunder and lightning peculiar to the Cisalpine regions.

The phenomenon alluded to at the conclusion of the third stanza is well known to naturalists. The vegetation at the bottom of the sea, of rivers, and of lakes, sympathizes with that of the land in the change of seasons, and is consequently influenced by the winds which announce it.[SHELLEYS NOTE.])'
~ Percy Bysshe Shelley, Ode to the West Wind



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