Percy Bysshe Shelley is featured in Edition: Lunacy

We are the clouds that veil the midnight moon;
     How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,
Streaking the darkness radiantly!–yet soon
     Night closes round, and they are lost forever:

Or like forgotten lyres, whose dissonant strings
     Give various response to each varying blast,
To whose frail frame no second motion brings
     One mood or modulation like the last.

We rest.–A dream has power to poison sleep;
     We rise.–One wandering thought pollutes the day;
We feel, conceive or reason, laugh or weep;
     Embrace fond foe, or cast our cares away:

It is the same!–For, be it joy or sorrow,
     The path of its departure still is free:
Man’s yesterday may ne’er be like his morrow;
     Nought may endure but Mutability.

How stern are the woes of the desolate mourner
As he bends in still grief o’er the hallowed bier,
As enanguished he turns from the laugh of the scorner,
And drops to perfection’s remembrance a tear;
When floods of despair down his pale cheeks are streaming,
When no blissful hope on his bosom is beaming,
Or, if lulled for a while, soon he starts from his dreaming,
And finds torn the soft ties to affection so dear.
Ah, when shall day dawn on the night of the grave,
Or summer succeed to the winter of death?
Rest awhle, hapless victim! and Heaven will save
The spirit that hath faded away with the breath.
Eternity points, in its amaranth bower
Where no clouds of fate o’er the sweet prospect lour,
Unspeakable pleasure, of goodness the dower,
When woe fades away like the mist of the heath.