I think of his poems as cloudy weather, magnified
the lark ascending always
a kind of natural ecstacy and yet, immortal in its saying.
ennobling.
but I wonder if Shelley
would have been acknowledged in our time
when so many proscribe in diatribes:
only the political is real. and political poetry.
I am glad he was born then
so that his cloudy imagination
remains on the antique page
undisturbed. as snow at the poles must be
a dream on a now forgotten stage
a dream within a dream
with all your modern semi revolutionary zeal
you cannot kill.not even in yourselves
but only- conceal.
mary angela douglas 4 august 2019
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