Ode to the West Wind. Percy Bysshe Shelley.
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.
Yellow and black. Pale and hectic.
Red pestilence, striking multitudes. Oh, thou who charities to that dark, wintry bat.
The winged seeds where they lay cold and low each like a corpse within its grain until darkness your sister offspring spring
shall blow Clarion All the dreaming and fill driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air with living hues and odours,
plain and hill wild spirit which are moving everywhere.
Destroyer and preserver. Here. Oh, here. Now on whose stream with the steep skies commotion loosed Clouds like us declaring leaves
are shed shook from the tangled boughs of heaven and ocean Angels of rain and lightning.
There are spread on the blue surface of thin air, like the bright hair uplifted from the head of some fierce mine,
not even from the dim verge of the horizon to the zenith height, the locks of the approaching storm,
its output of the dying year to which this closing night will be the dome of a vast sepulchre vaulted with
all they congregated might of vapours from whose solid atmosphere black rain and fire and hail will burst.
Oh, here, thou who didn't waken from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean,
where he lay lulled by the coil of his crystalline streams beside a pumice isle in by ice bay and soar in sleep.
Old palaces and towers quivering within the waves intense today,
all overgrown with as your moss and flowers so sweet the sense faint picturing them down for whose path
the Atlantic's level powers cleave themselves into chasms while far below the sea blooms and oozy woods,
which where the cypress foliage of the ocean. No, they voice and suddenly grow grey with fear and tremble and despoil themselves.
Oh, here, if I were a deadly flower might despair.
If I were a swift cloud to fly would with a wave to pant beneath my power and share the impulse of thy strength,
only less free than thou uncontrollable, if even I, whereas in my boyhood, and could be the comrade of thy wanderings over heaven,
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,
a leaf, a cloud I fall upon the thorns of life I bleed.
A heavyweight of ours has chained and bowed one to likely tame this swift and proud
make me fi liar Even as the forest put as my leaves are falling like its own,
the tumult of thy mighty harmonies will take from both A deep,
autumnal tone Sweet though in sadness Beat our spirit fierce my stirred be down me impetuous
one drive my dead thoughts over the universe like withered leaves to quicken a new birth.
And by the incantation of this verse, scatter,
summon on extinguished half ashes and sparks my words among mankind be through my lips to un awakened the trumpet of prophecy.
Old wind. If winter comes. Can spring be far behind?