I read a sonnet by Percy Bysshe Shelley today. It was unfamiliar to me; I came across it in the book Five Hundred Years of English Poetry: Chaucer to Arnold edited by Barbara Lloyd-Evans. The text I read in the book does not include the word ‘painted’ in the first line, but all the examples I found online did include it.

The book text indicates that perhaps it was published twice, in 1818 and 1824. Possibly this accounts for the textual difference. I almost prefer it without the word ‘painted’, although that may be due to having first encountered it that way. At any rate, it is a wonderful poem and I will share it here.

Lift not the painted veil which those who live
Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe
With colours idly spread,—behind, lurk Fear
And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave
Their shadows, o’er the chasm, sightless and drear.
I knew one who had lifted it—he sought,
For his lost heart was tender, things to love
But found them not, alas! nor was there aught
The world contains, the which he could approve.
Through the unheeding many he did move,
A splendour among shadows, a bright blot
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove
For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.