by Percy Bysshe Shelley
2
4

3

 Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,  Lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams, 
 Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day, 
 All overgrown with azure moss and flowers  So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers 
 Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know  
 Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear, And tremble and despoil themselves: oh, hear!