Page:Prometheus Unbound - Shelley.djvu/126

122 Spectres we Of the dead Hours be, We bear Time to his tomb in eternity.

Strew, oh, strew Hair, not yew! Wet the dusty pall with tears, not dew! Be the faded flowers Of Death's bare bowers Spread on the corpse of the King of Hours!

Haste, oh, haste! As shades are chased, Trembling, by day, from heaven's blue waste. We melt away, Like dissolving spray, From the children of a diviner day, With the lullaby Of winds that die On the bosom of their own harmony!

What dark forms were they?