THE GRAVE OF SHELLEY
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IKE burnt-out torches by a sick man’s bedGaunt 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 pyramidSurely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid,Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead. Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the wombOf Earth, great mother of eternal sleep,But sweeter far for thee a restless tombIn the blue cavern of an echoing deep,Or where the tall ships founder in the gloomAgainst the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.
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