Oscar Wilde

(1854-1900 / Dublin / Ireland)

The Grave Of Shelley - Poem by Oscar Wilde

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.


Comments about The Grave Of Shelley by Oscar Wilde

  • Veteran Poet - 1,397 Points Sagnik Chakraborty (10/26/2009 3:45:00 PM)

    Excellent! A befitting lyrical portrait of the final resting place of the ashes of the 'restless' volcano that was Shelley. A masterly tribute to an unparalleled master. (Report) Reply

    0 person liked.
    0 person did not like.
Read all 1 comments »



Read this poem in other languages

This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.

I would like to translate this poem »

word flags

What do you think this poem is about?

Read poems about / on: sick, mother, red, sleep, sun, world, night, tree



Poem Submitted: Friday, May 18, 2001

Poem Edited: Friday, May 18, 2001


[Hata Bildir]