The Grave of Shelley

Like burn-out torches by a sick man’s bed
Gaunt cypress-trees stand round the sun-bleached stone;
Here doth the little night-owl make here throne;
And 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 pleausaunce of the dead.
Ah! sweet indeed to rest within te womb
Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep,
But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb
In the blue cavern of an echoing deep,
In where the tall ships founder in the gloom
Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.