Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)

SHE, whom prayers or tears then could not tame,

Passed, like a God throned on a wingèd planet;

Whose burning plumes to tenfold swiftness fan it;

Into the dreary cone of our life’s shade;

And as a man with mighty loss dismayed,

I would have followed, though the grave between

Yawned like a gulf whose spectres are unseen:

When a voice said:—‘O thou of hearts the weakest,

The phantom is beside thee whom thou seekest.’

Then I—‘Where?’—the world’s echo answered ‘where?’

And in that silence, and in my despair,

I questioned every tongueless wind that flew

Over my tower of mourning, if it knew

Whither ’twas fled, this soul out of my soul;

And murmured names and spells which have control

Over the sightless tyrants of our fate;

But neither prayer nor verse could dissipate

The night which closed on her …