When a lover clasps his fairest...
by Percy Bysshe Shelley
When a lover clasps his fairest
Then be our dread sport the rarest.
Their caresses were like the chaff
In the tempest, and be our laugh
His despair -- her epitaph!
When a mother clasps her child,
Watch till dusty Death has piled
His cold ashes on the clay;
She has loved it many a day --
She remains, -- it fades away.
Published 1839, 2nd Edition.
Source:The Lyrics and Shorter Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley
Copyright 1907, reprinted 1913
London: J.M. Dent and Sons, Ltd.
New York: E.P. Dutton and Co.