San Terenzo

MID April seemed like some November day,  
When through the glassy waters, dull as lead,  
Our boat, like shadowy barques that bear the dead,  
Slipped down the long shores of the Spezian bay,  
Rounded a point,—and San Terenzo lay
Before us, that gay village, yellow and red,  
The roof that covered Shelley’s homeless head,—  
His house, a place deserted, bleak and gray.  
The waves broke on the doorstep; fishermen  
Cast their long nets, and drew, and cast again.
Deep in the ilex woods we wandered free,  
When suddenly the forest glades were stirred  
With waving pinions, and a great sea bird  
Flew forth, like Shelley’s spirit, to the sea!