By the Mouth of the Arno
Here, where the crawling river seaward sets,
And riverward the sea, about a land
Laid under heaven in lonely flats of sand
Saltblackened, where the sluggish water frets
Its margin till marsh-deltas interlace
In reedy desolation; on each hand
The long gray grasses shiver in their grace
Through sun and shadow, till salt winds deface,
Their wasted beauty; here—by such a strand—
Pale Shelley passed, and so his course did keep
To sail Death’s unexplored and open deep.
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