Ii

A hundred years ago to-day There came a soul, A pilgrim of the perilous light, Treading the spheral paths of night, On whom the word and vision lay With dread control.

Now the pale Summer lingers near, And talks to me Of all her wayward journeyings, And the old, sweet, forgotten things She loved and lost and dreamed of here By the blue sea.

The great cloud-navies, one by one, Bend sails and fill From ports below the round sea-verge; I watch them gather and emerge, And steer for havens of the sun Beyond the hill.

The gray sea-horses troop and roam; The shadows fly Along the wind-floor at their heels; And where the golden daylight wheels, A white gull searches the blue dome With keening cry.

And something, Shelley, like thy fame Dares the wide morn In that sea-rover’s glimmering flight, As if the Northland and the night Should hear thy splendid valiant name Put scorn to scorn.