The Odor of a rose: light of a star: The essence of a flame blown on by wind, That lights and warms all near it, bland and kind, But aye consumes itself, as though at war With what supports and feeds it;—from afar It draws its life, but evermore inclined To leap into the flame that makes men blind Who seek the secret of all things that are. Such wert thou, Shelley, bound for airiest goal: Interpreter of quintessential things: Who mounted ever up on eagle-wings Of phantasy: had aimed at heaven and stole Promethean fire for men to be as gods, And dwell in free, aerial abodes.
Collection:
1859
Sub Title:
Descriptive Poems: I. Personal: Great Writers