Shelley
by
Knight-errant of the Never-ending Quest,
And Minstrel of the Unfulfilled Desire;
For ever tuning thy frail earthly lyre
To some unearthly music, and possessed
With painful passionate longing to invest
The golden dream of Love’s immortal fire
With mortal robes of beautiful attire,
And fold perfection to thy throbbing breast!
What wonder, Shelley, that the restless wave
Should claim thee and the leaping flame consume
Thy drifted form on Viareggio’s beach?
These were thine elements,–thy fitting grave.
But still thy soul rides on with fiery plume,
Thy wild song rings in ocean’s yearning speech!
August, 1906.