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Ode to the West Wind. Percy Bysshe Shelley.

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A Wild West wind down breed of autumn's being thou from whose unseen presence the leaves dead are driven like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing.

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Yellow and black. Pale and hectic.

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Red pestilence, striking multitudes. Oh, thou who charities to that dark, wintry bat.

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The winged seeds where they lay cold and low each like a corpse within its grain until darkness your sister offspring spring

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shall blow Clarion All the dreaming and fill driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air with living hues and odours,

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plain and hill wild spirit which are moving everywhere.

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Destroyer and preserver. Here. Oh, here. Now on whose stream with the steep skies commotion loosed Clouds like us declaring leaves

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are shed shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean Angels of rain and lightning.

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There are spread on the blue surface of thin air, like the bright hair uplifted from the head of some fierce mine,

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not even from the dim verge of the horizon to the zenith height, the locks of the approaching storm,

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its output of the dying year to which this closing night will be the dome of a vast sepulchre vaulted with

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all they congregated might of vapours from whose solid atmosphere black rain and fire and hail will burst.

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Oh, here, thou who didn't waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean,

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where he lay lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams beside a pumice isle in by ice bay and soar in sleep.

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Old palaces and towers quivering within the waves intense today,

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all overgrown with as your moss and flowers so sweet the sense faint picturing them down for whose path

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the Atlantic's level powers cleave themselves into chasms while far below the sea blooms and oozy woods,

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which where the cypress foliage of the ocean. No, they voice and suddenly grow grey with fear and tremble and despoil themselves.

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Oh, here, if I were a deadly flower might despair.

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If I were a swift cloud to fly would with a wave to pant beneath my power and share the impulse of thy strength,

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only less free than thou uncontrollable, if even I, whereas in my boyhood, and could be the comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,

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ascend would outstrip thy sky sea scarce seemed a vision I would never have striven as thus with the impro in my soul need o lift me as a wave,

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a leaf, a cloud I fall upon the thorns of life I bleed.

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A heavyweight of ours has chained and bowed one to likely tame this swift and proud

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make me fi liar Even as the forest put as my leaves are falling like its own,

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the tumult of thy mighty harmonies will take from both A deep,

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autumnal tone Sweet though in sadness Beat our spirit fierce my stirred be down me impetuous

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one drive my dead thoughts over the universe like withered leaves to quicken a new birth.

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And by the incantation of this verse, scatter,

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summon on extinguished half ashes and sparks my words among mankind be through my lips to un awakened the trumpet of prophecy.

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Old wind. If winter comes. Can spring be far behind?