Percy shelley sonnets5/8/2023 ![]() Behind them the poet’s widow, Mary Shelley, kneels in prayer. To the left we see a watch tower, a waiting carriage, a bare and solitary tree and, in the foreground, three Heathcliffian figures: Lord Byron, his necktie blowing raffishly in the wind, Byron’s “bulldog” Edward John Trelawny, and the poet and journalist Leigh Hunt, clutching a white handkerchief. Smoke billows across the barren wastes of Viareggio, Italy, the sky is autumnal and overcast and the sea in which he drowned is a blade of silver on the horizon. Like the “blithe spirit” in “To a Skylark”, he is ready to transcend his physical form. Percy Bysshe Shelley, clothed in black, lies on the branches of the funeral pyre his pale face might be sleeping, his hair is swept back, his hand has fallen to his side. Nothing in his life became him like the leaving of it. ![]()
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