Classic Poem

Not in this palipitating air,
Fulfilled with dreadful gloom,
Shelley, thou hoverest: but where
Above this earth, thy tomb,

From height to starrier height of space
Thy vehement flight outflies
Lightnings upon their voiceless chase
Over fire-quickened skies.

The terrors of thy tragic song
Pierced with pure shafts of day
Thou leavest: shall we do thee wrong
Plucking thee from thy way?

Music diviner than was thine,
When song was all thy breath,
Thou chauntest while earth's undivine
Clamour dies down in death.

For fairer than the morning quires
Of clear-voiced stars thy voice
Pours fragrance on the sunrise-fires,
Love bidding life rejoice.

Thy dream's full vision crowns thee now
With perfect peace: and we
With love, not wildered awe, avow
Thy song's supremacy.

O poet best-beloved, forgive
These hours that do thee wrong:
Thee in whose light I fain would live,
Would die to join thy throng.