(With what truth may I say-- <br />Roma! Roma! Roma! <br />Non e piu come era prima!) <br /> <br />I. <br />My lost William, thou in whom <br />Some bright spirit lived, and did <br />That decaying robe consume <br />Which its lustre faintly hid,-- <br />Here its ashes find a tomb, <br />But beneath this pyramid <br />Thou art not—if a thing divine <br />Like thee can die, thy funeral shrine <br />Is thy mother’s grief and mine. <br /> <br />II. <br />Where art thou, my gentle child? <br />Let me think thy spirit feeds, <br />With its life intense and mild, <br />The love of living leaves and weeds <br />Among these tombs and ruins wild;-- <br />Let me think that through low seeds <br />Of sweet flowers and sunny grass <br />Into their hues and scents may pass <br />A portion--<br /><br />Percy Bysshe Shelley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-william-shelley/
