The Death of my laureate

A pale yellow withered leaf

   Flowed down the

Murmuring Gulf of Spezia

  Struggling lamenting reached ashore

Was buried among the

  Sighing young buttercups

 

West wind sang a melancholy lament

  Ozymandias , the king of kings

Praised thy wit

  The cloud which brings

Fresh showers for thirsty flowers

  Wandered away

Unable to offer thee his pure dews

 

But you motionless laid there

  With solitude

A ghastly silence

  A freezing isolated breeze

Approached sewing a shroud

  For thy pathetic departure

 

A violent squall blew up

  Swamped you into the dark

Don't leave me my love

  Thy unfinished 'The triumph of love'

Sighed and pleaded for thy life

 

When thou art gone,

  No sonnet no ode

Will encounter such spirit, such wit

  As yours, noble artist

Percy Bysshe Shelly