Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822 / Horsham / England)
To William Shelley.
(With what truth may I say--
Roma! Roma! Roma!
Non e piu come era prima!)
My lost William, thou in whom
Some bright spirit lived, and did
That decaying robe consume
Which its lustre faintly hid,--
Here its ashes find a tomb,
But beneath this pyramid
Thou art not—if a thing divine
Like thee can die, thy funeral shrine
Is thy mother’s grief and mine.
Where art thou, my gentle child?
Let me think thy spirit feeds,
With its life intense and mild,
The love of living leaves and weeds
Among these tombs and ruins wild;--
Let me think that through low seeds
Of sweet flowers and sunny grass
Into their hues and scents may pass
Comments about this poem (To William Shelley. by Percy Bysshe Shelley )
People who read Percy Bysshe Shelley also read
Top 500 Poems
The Road Not Taken
If You Forget Me
Still I Rise
Edgar Allan Poe
William Ernest Henley
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings