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 lizard show his jewelled head.
And, where the chaliced poppies flame to red,
   In the still chamber of yon pyramid
   Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks 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 cavern of an echoing deep,
Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom
   Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.

Rome.

BY THE ARNO

   The oleander on the wall
   Grows crimson in the dawning light,
   Though the grey shadows of the night
Lie yet on Florence like a pall.

   The dew is bright upon the hill,
   And bright the blossoms overhead,
   But ah! the grasshoppers have fled,
The little Attic song is still.

   Only the leaves are gently stirred
   By the soft breathing of the gale,
   And in the almond-scented vale
The lonely nightingale is heard.

   The day will make thee silent soon,
   O nightingale sing on for love!
   While yet upon the shadowy grove
Splinter the arrows of the moon.

   Before across the silent lawn
   In sea-green vest the morning steals,
   And to love’s frightened eyes reveals
The long white fingers of the dawn

   Fast climbing up the eastern sky
   To grasp and slay the shuddering night,
   All careless of my heart’s delight,
Or if the nightingale should die.