News at Eleven: The movement of Shelley's verse

imitates the rhythm of orgasm in a way that still feels startling:

He reared his shuddering limbs, and quelled
His gasping breath, and spread his arms to meet
Her panting bosom; . . . she drew back a while,
Then, yielding to the irresistible joy,
With frantic gesture and short breathless cry
Folded his frame in her dissolving arms.

When the Poet wakes up, he realizes that he cannot live without seeing the maid again. But this need to pursue "Beyond the realms of dream that fleeting shade," to find the Infinite in the real world, seals his doom.

from The New Yorker: Avenging Angel

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