SONNETS

TREAD softly! Here the heart of Shelley lies:

His grave a garden ’neath the cypress wood,

Stirred with the tongues his spirit understood,

And spake in deathless song that vivifies

Men’s souls made heavy with the sad world’s cries,

Still where the darkness hides the dragon brood

Of evil, and while yet innocent blood

Is shed, and truth and falsehood change their dyes.

Thy voice is heard above the silent tomb,

And shall be heard until the end of days,

While Freedom lives, and whatsoever things

Are good and lovely—still thy spirit sings,

And by thy grave to-day fresh violets bloom,

But on thy head imperishable bays.