The Protestant Cemetery in Rome is apparently in such a state of disrepair that it may have to close permanently, the tombs and headstones themselves crumbling. The graveyard itself is apparently extremely beautiful (there are some photos here if you scroll down) and is home to the graves of Keats and Percy Bysshe, among other famous artists.
Now, I understand the fuss about it. I understand the romance of being able to visit the grave of, well, Shelley specifically, especially given the way he described the place. All that natural beauty and feeling a connection to another time, to something bigger than you and highly meaningful in an inexpressible way. But at the same time I find myself thinking that this is what happens. We put it off for as long as possible - preserving buildings and artefacts - but, in the end, things decay. It is sad but it is natural. I'd like the place to be taken care of, preserved in as much as that's possible. But things fall apart and I think Shelley himself would have appreciated that:
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
However, those who have the money, I would encourage you to make a donation if you feel so inclined.
Now, I understand the fuss about it. I understand the romance of being able to visit the grave of, well, Shelley specifically, especially given the way he described the place. All that natural beauty and feeling a connection to another time, to something bigger than you and highly meaningful in an inexpressible way. But at the same time I find myself thinking that this is what happens. We put it off for as long as possible - preserving buildings and artefacts - but, in the end, things decay. It is sad but it is natural. I'd like the place to be taken care of, preserved in as much as that's possible. But things fall apart and I think Shelley himself would have appreciated that:
I met a traveler from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read,
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed,
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look upon my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
However, those who have the money, I would encourage you to make a donation if you feel so inclined.
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