'Twixt those twin worlds,—the world of Sleep, which
No dream to warn,—the tidal world of Death,
Which the earth's sea, as the earth, replenisheth,—Shelley,
Song's orient sun, to breast the wave,
Rose from this couch that morn.
Ah! did he
Only the sea?—or did man's deed of
Engulph his bark 'mid mists impenetrable? . . .
No eye discerned, nor any power might save.
When that mist cleared,
O Shelley! what dread
Was rent for thee, to whom far-darkling
Reigned sovereign guide through thy brief ageless youth?
Was the Truth thy Truth,
Shelley?—Hush!
All-Hail!
Past doubt, thou gav'st it; and in Truth's bright
Art first of praisers, being most praisèd here.
