"Shelley"
"Shelley"
When I'm dying,
and near paradise,
maybe
the little boat will come
like a cloud--
like a wing--
like a white light burning.
This morning,
in the actual fog
beside the rocking sea,
there was nothing--
not a sail,
not a soul.
There was only this--
an idea.
Beauty
can die all right--
but don't you worry,
from utter darkness--
since opposites are, finally, the same--
comes light's snowy field.
And, as for eternity, what's that
but the collection of all the hours we have known
of sweetness
and urgency?
The boat bounced and sparkled,
then it trembled,
then it shook,
then it lay down on the waves.
I believe in death.
I believe it is the last wonderful work.
So they spilled from the boat,
they plunged toward darkness, they drowned.
You know the story.
How the sky flares and grows brighter, all the time!
How time extends!
From The West Wind.