Verse > Anthologies > Andrew Macphail, ed. > The Book of Sorrow
Andrew Macphail, comp.  The Book of Sorrow.  1916.
XXIV. Bitter Sorrow
By Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792–1822)
THEY die—the dead return not—Misery
  Sits near an open grave and calls them over,
A Youth with hoary hair and haggard eye—
  They are the names of kindred, friend, and lover,
Which he so feebly calls—they all are gone—        5
Fond wretch, all dead! those vacant names alone,
      This most familiar scene, my pain—
      These tombs—alone remain.
Misery, my sweetest friend—oh! weep no more!
  Thou wilt not be consoled—I wonder not!        10
For I have seen thee from thy dwelling’s door
  Watch the calm sunset with them, and this spot
Was even as bright and calm, but transitory,
And now thy hopes are gone, thy hair is hoary;
      This most familiar scene, my pain—        15
      These tombs—alone remain.

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