After Death

I look on my soul but it is gone. Pale, tired, weeping it smiles no more. It speaks in the song of a leaf, like a song— Of a garden that blooms in sorrow, peace o’er a foam: And here I may be—like your presence; here; But the wild dove is reversed, brown as of old.

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

• Percy Bysshe Shelley