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Oscar Wilde - The Grave Of Shelley
Work rating: Medium

.         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.

          Ah! sweet indeed to rest within the womb
            Of Earth, great mother of eternal sleep,                  


          But sweeter far for thee a restless tomb
            In the blue cavern of an echoing deep,
          Or where the tall ships founder in the gloom
            Against the rocks of some wave-shattered steep.
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