By Percy Bysshe Shelley
What is love？ Ask him who lives， what is life？ ask him whoadores， what is God？
I know not the internal constitution of other men， noreven thine， whom I now address. I see that in some externalattributes they resemble me， but when， misled by thatappearance， I have thought to appeal to something in common，and unburthen my inmost soul to them， I have found mylanguage misunderstood， like one in a distant and savage land.
The more opportunities they have afforded me for experience，the wider has appeared the interval between us， and to a greaterdistance have the points of sympathy been withdrawn. Witha spirit ill fitted to sustain such proof， trembling and feeblethrough its tenderness， I have everywhere sought sympathyand have found only repulse and disappointment.
Thou demandest what is love？ It is that powerful attractiontowards all that we conceive， or fear， or hope beyond ourselves，when we find within our own thoughts the chasm of aninsufficient void， and seek to awaken in all things that are， acommunity with what we experience within ourselves. If wereason， we would be understood； if we imagine， we would thatthe airy children of our brain were born anew within another’s；if we feel， we would that another’s nerves should vibrate to ourown， that the beams of their eyes should kindle at once and mixand melt into our own， that lips of motionless ice should notreply to lips quivering and burning with the heart’s best blood.
This is Love. This is the bond and the sanction which connectsnot only man with man， but with everything which exists. Weare born into the world， and there is something within us which，from the instant that we live， more and more thirsts after itslikeness. It is probably in correspondence with this law that theinfant drains milk from the bosom of its mother； this propensitydevelops itself with the development of our nature. We dimlysee within our intellectual nature a miniature as it were of ourentire self， yet deprived of all that we condemn or despise， theideal prototype of everything excellent or lovely that we arecapable of conceiving as belonging to the nature of man. Notonly the portrait of our external being， but an assemblage of theminutest particles of which our nature is composed；① a mirrorwhose surface reflects only the forms of purity and brightness；a soul within our soul that describes a circle around its properparadise， which pain， and sorrow， and evil dare not overleap.
To this we eagerly refer all sensations， thirsting that they shouldresemble or correspond with it. The discovery of its antitype；themeeting with an understanding capable of clearly estimatingour own； an imagination which should enter into and seize uponthe subtle and delicate peculiarities which we have delighted tocherish and unfold in secret； with a frame whose nerves， likethe chords of two exquisite lyres， strung to the accompanimentof one delightful voice， vibrate with the vibrations of our own；and of a combination of all these in such proportion as the typewithin demands； this is the invisible and unattainable pointto which Love tends； and to attain which， it urges forth thepowers of man to arrest the faintest shadow of that， without thepossession of which there is no rest nor respite to the heart overwhich it rules. Hence in solitude， or in that deserted state whenwe are surrounded by human beings， and yet they sympathizenot with us， we love the flowers， the grass， and the waters， andthe sky. In the motion of the very leaves of spring， in the blueair， there is then found a secret correspondence with our heart.
There is eloquence in the tongueless wind， and a melody in theflowing brooks and the rustling of the reeds beside them， whichby their inconceivable relation to something within the soul，awaken the spirits to a dance of breathless rapture， and bringtears of mysterious tenderness to the eyes， like the enthusiasmof patriotic success， or the voice of one beloved singing to youalone. Sterne says that， if he were in a desert， he would lovesome cypress. So soon as this want or power is dead， manbecomes the living sepulchre of himself， and what yet survivesis the mere husk of what once he was.
① Footnote： These words are ineffectual and metaphorical. Most words areso—No help！