Shelley

The odor of a rose: light of a star:
The essence of a flame blown on by wind,
That lights and warms all near it, bland and kind,
But aye consumes itself, as though at war
With what supports and feeds it; — from afar
It draws its life, but evermore inclin'd
To leap into the flame that makes men blind
Who seek the secret of all things that are.
Such wert thou, Shelley, bound for airiest goal:
Interpreter of quintessential things:
Who mounted ever up on eagle-wings
Of phantasy: had aim'd at heaven and stole
Promethean fire for men to be as gods,
And dwell in free, aerial abodes.