Shrouded Shelley

Those longed-for summer days are dying.
Autumnal leaves, already lying,
remind us of that solemn season,
which soon will fall, and that’s the reason

why poets’ pens are paused o'er pages.
They hear the storm as if it rages
to stir the soulless savage ocean,
whose waves did drown without emotion

the poet, Percy: Shrouded Shelly!
Who breathed his last in ocean's belly.
That bloodless beast, it stole his passion.
Turned youthful cheeks from red to ashen.

That longed-for summer day lay dying.
Upon that beach where body's lying
the poet brothers all assembled,
their pen-free hands, ‘neath cloaks, all trembled.