The Grave Of Shelley

Like burnt-out torches by a sick man's bed

Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone；

Here doth the little night-owl make her throne，

And the slight lizard1 show his jewelled head.

And， where the chaliced poppies flame to red，

In the still chamber2 of yon pyramid

Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks3 darkly hid，

Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.

Ah！ sweet indeed to rest within the womb

Of Earth， great mother of eternal sleep，

But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb

In the blue cavern4 of an echoing deep，

Or where the tall ships founder5 in the gloom

Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.

ROME.