The Funeral of Shelley By Louis Edouard Fornier
I asked myself why poets die so young,
There, Shelley, Keats, there Plath and Byron, gone-
Fighting death with no more than a soulful tongue,
In lands where beauty from a critic’s hand is drawn,
A world that took a gamble on their souls,
And death that bowed to their immortality,
‘Tween realism’s and romanticism’s two poles,
Their chains are tight round their heart’s vitality,
Secure in freedom as the world is in prison
A threat to universe’s stagnation by mere words
They lived for, and when God took a sun that’s risen,
It left no reason to keep away night's swords
I fear not the death of poets, I long for it,
Ah! come its call, gladly I will submit.
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