I. <br />They die--the dead return not--Misery <br />Sits near an open grave and calls them over, <br />A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye-- <br />They are the names of kindred, friend and lover, <br />Which he so feebly calls—they all are gone-- <br />Fond wretch, all dead! those vacant names alone, <br />This most familiar scene, my pain-- <br />These tombs—alone remain. <br /> <br />II. <br />Misery, my sweetest friend—oh, weep no more! <br />Thou wilt not be consoled—I wonder not! <br />For I have seen thee from thy dwelling’s door <br />Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot <br />Was even as bright and calm, but transitory, <br />And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary; <br />This most familiar scene, my pain-- <br />These tombs—alone remain.<br /><br />Percy Bysshe Shelley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/death-515/
