A REFUGE FOR POETS WHO WRITE IN THE LYRIC TRADITION,
WITH RHYME AND METER, WITH OR WITHOUT MUSIC
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DEATH OF SHELLEY
Along the western coast of Italy,
Within a narrow, nearly landlocked bay,
A white house standing almost in the sea
Was Percy Shelley’s rented summer home.
Upon a little skiff he sailed away.
The sky grew dark; the sea was white with foam.
The thunderstorm was twenty minutes long,
And when it cleared, the little boat was gone.
The poet’s body floated to the sand.
His grieving friends prepared a funeral pyre.
His heart alone was unconsumed by fire,
And it was rescued, painfully, by hand.
The dearest heart the world has ever known
Lies buried ‘neath the ancient walls of Rome.
Saranac Lake, New York, 1997
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