1. Brief Even As Bright (Shelly)

The flower that smiles today
Tomorrow dies
All that we wished to stay
Temps and then flies
What is the worlds delight?
Lightning that mocks the night
Brief even as bright

Virtue how frail it is
Friendship too rare
Love, how it sells poor bliss
For proud despair
But we, though soon they fall
Survive the joy and all
Which ours we call

What is the worlds delight?
Lightning that mocks the night
Brief even as bright
Whilst yet the calm hours creep
Dream thou and from thy sleep
Than wake to weep

2. On A Faded Violet (Shelly)

The colour from the flower is gone,
Which like thy sweet eves smiled on me
The odour from the flower is flow,
Which breath of thee and only thee

A withered, lifeless, vacant form,
It lies on my abandoned breast,
And mocks the heart which yet is warm
With cold and silent rest.

I weep – my tears revive it not.
I sigh – it breathes no more on me
Its mute and uncomplaining lot
Is such as mine should be

3. In Darkness Let Me Dwell (Dowland)

Sorrow, stay! Lend true repentant tears
To a woeful wretched wight.
Hence, despair with thy tormenting fears
0 do not my poor heart affright.

In darkness let me dwell,
the ground shall sorrow be;
The roof despair to bar
all cheerful light from me:
The walls of marble black
that moistened still shall weep;
My music hellish jarring sounds
to banish friendly sleep.

(Thus wedded to my woes,
and bedded to my tomb,
Oh let me living, living die,
till death do come)

4. Shall I Strive? (Dowland)

Shall I strive with words to move
When deeds receive not due regard?
Shall I speak and neither please
Nor be freely heard?

Grief, alas, though all in vain,
Her restless anguish must reveal.
She alone my wound shall know
Though she will not heal.

All woes have end though awhile delayed,
Our patience proving.
Oh that Time's strange effects
Could but make her loving.

Storms calm at last, and why may not
She leave off her frowning?
Oh sweet Love, help her hands,
My affecting crowning.

5. Arise From Dreams Of Thee (Shelly)

I arise from dreams of thee
In the first sweet sweep of night,
When the winds are breathing low,
And the stars are shining bright.

The nightingale's complaint,
It dies upon her heart,
As I must die on thine,
O, beloved as thou art!

My cheek is cold and white, alas!
My heart beats loud and fast:
Oh! press it close to thine again,
Where it will break at last