San Terenzo

MID April seemed like some November day,  

When through the glassy waters, dull as lead,  

Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear the dead,  

Slipped down the long shores of the Spezian bay,  

Rounded a point,—and San Terenzo lay

Before us, that gay village, yellow and red,  

The roof that covered Shelley’s homeless head,—  

His house, a place deserted, bleak and gray.  

The waves broke on the doorstep; fishermen  

Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast again.

Deep in the ilex woods we wandered free,  

When suddenly the forest glades were stirred  

With waving pinions, and a great sea bird  

Flew forth, like Shelley’s spirit, to the sea!