from Mary W. Shelley: A Biography in Sonnets

They waited impatiently, mainly for you to fail:
Who were you to compete with the poets,
who would no doubt find writing a ghost
story simple child’s play? Embarrassed, 
mortified (traumatized by the loss of your
baby), you must acknowledge each morning
you had thought of no story, one imagines
much to their smug and preening satisfaction.
Then came the nightmare of the pale student
of unhallowed arts lying beside the thing. You,
a terrorized girl, had witnessed with closed eyes
the birth of a myth, more potent than Prometheus.
Something new to haunt you, this hideous phantom. 
Beyond the shutters, the Alps shivered in moonlight.