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.