'Twixt those twin worlds,—the world of Sleep, which gave
No dream to warn,—the tidal world of Death,
Which the earth's sea, as the earth, replenisheth,—
Shelley, Song's orient sun, to breast the wave,
Rose from this couch that morn. Ah! did he brave
Only the sea?—or did man's deed of hell
Engulph his bark 'mid mists impenetrable? . . .
No eye discerned, nor any power might save.
When that mist cleared, O Shelley! what dread veil
Was rent for thee, to whom far-darkling Truth
Reigned sovereign guide through thy brief ageless youth?
Was the Truth thy Truth, Shelley?—Hush! All-Hail!
Past doubt, thou gav'st it; and in Truth's bright sphere
Art first of praisers, being most praisèd here.
a poem for the very young Shelley, who was very godless, much to the chagrin of his father, and died at the age of 30 in a boating accident in Italian waters, despite his wickedness, he helped the poor
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem
Past doubt, thou gav'st it; and in Truth's bright sphere Art first of praisers, being most praisèd here. // truth is practical activities of life