UPON three thorns the soul of Shelley bled:
A heart too ardent to be measured out
In earth’s unsatisfied and weary bout
Against death and corruption; a mind misled
By lusts and fantasies, although it sped
On shining wings to compass man’s relief;
And men, who crossed and cankered him with grief
Lest oracles lose face at what he said.
These thorns became a multitude, and pain
Pierced bitterly and often his sad heart.
Neither himself nor others could he save;
But brooding on the winds, the Titan’s chain,
He found exalted songs, and touched the art
Whose tears no ineffectual angel gave.