The Grave of Shelley

Like burnt-out torches by a sick man's bed

Gaunt 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 pyramid

Surely some Old-World Sphinx lurks darkly hid

Grim warder of this pleasaunce of the dead.