He, as I guess, Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness, Actaeon-like, and now he fled astray With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, And his own thoughts, along that rugged way, Pursued like raging hounds their father and their prey.
A pard-like Spirit beautiful and swift-- A love in desolation masked--a Power Girt round with weakness; it can scarce uplift The weight of the superincumbent hour; Is it a dying lamp, a falling shower, A breaking billow;--even whilst we speak Is it not broken?
On the withering flower The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break.
His head was bound with pansies over-blown, And faded violets, white and pied and blue; And a light spear topped with a cypress cone, Round whose rude shaft dark ivy-tresses grew Yet dripping with the forest's noon-day dew, Vibrated, as the ever-beating heart Shook the weak hand that grasped it.

Of that crew He came the last, neglected and apart; A herd-abandoned deer, struck by the hunter's dart.
The second passage is the peroration of the poem.

Nowhere has Shelley expressed his philosophy of man's relation to the universe with more sublimity and with a more imperial command of language than in these stanzas.

If it were possible to identify that philosophy with any recognized system of thought, it might be called pantheism.

But it is difficult to affix a name, stereotyped by the usage of the schools, to the aerial spiritualism of its ardent and impassioned poet's creed.
The movement of the long melodious sorrow-song has just been interrupted by three stanzas, in which Shelley lashes the reviewer of Keats.