I hope someday that someone will have loved me enough to say these words over my dead body.
I hope someday my life has been such that they are true.
On a poet’s lips I slept,
Dreaming like a love-adept
In the sound his breathing kept;
Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses
But feeds on the aerial kisses
Of shapes that haunt Thought’s wildernesses.
He will watch from dawn to gloom
The lake-reflected sun illume
The yellow bees in the ivy-bloom
Nor heed nor see what things they be,—
But from these create he can
Forms more real than living man,
Nurslings of Immortality—Shelley, The Poet’s Dream