To William Shelley

My lost William, thou in whom

Some bright spirit lived, and did

That decaying robe consume

Which its lustre faintly hid, —

Here its ashes find a tomb,

But beneath this pyramid

Thou art not — if a thing divine

Like thee can die, thy funeral shrine

Is thy mother's grief and mine.

Where art thou, my gentle child?

Let me think thy spirit feeds,

With its life intense and mild,

The love of living leaves and weeds

Among these tombs and ruins wild; —

Let me think that through low seeds

Of sweet flowers and sunny grass

Into their hues and scents may pass

A portion —