I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!

My high-school English teacher, Mrs. Klebba, hated these particular lines with an unmatched fervor, and often, when the subject of Romanticism and Romantic poets was broached, would preface any discussion with a recitation that dripped with loathing. Although she loved Percy Bysshe Shelley, and only John Keats held a higher position in her heart, she regarded ?I bleed!? farcical, and saw it as a perfect example of the comical self-importance and melodrama which so many people automatically associate with poetry. In many ways I agree with her. When reciting this poem, those words do result in an embarrassed introspection, akin to The Lamb?s saccharine wasteland. But put within the greater context of Shelley?s work, or more specifically, its companion piece, To a Skylark some balm is applied to this particular welt. What Shelley is attempting to do here, and failing spectacularly, is create some of that ?Harmonious Madness? mentioned in ?Skylark.? Shelley is conjuring up a tidal wave of overpowering emotion, trying to encapsulate a religious ecstasy in words, and ends up spilling it all over himself. To his credit, he tried.