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You're left here to lament
ODE TO THE WEST WIND
(1) O Wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: 0 thou Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed in air) With living hues and odours plain and hill:
Wild Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
(2) Thou on whose stream, ʼmid the steep sky's commo
tion, Loose clouds like earth's decaying 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 thine airy surge, Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height, The locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the dying year, to which this closing night
Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, Vaulted with all thy congregated might
Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
(3) Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay, Lulld by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou For whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave themselves into chasms, while far below
The sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear The sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
If I were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
The impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than thou, O uncontrollable! If even I were as in my boyhood, and could be
The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As then, when to outstrip thy skyey speed Scarce seemed a vision, I would ne'er have striven
my sore need.
As thus with thee in prayer
in Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!
A heavy weight of hours has chained and bowed One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
(5) Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is:
What if 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. Be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! Be thou 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, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
PERCY Bysshe SHELLEY
ODE TO AUTUMN
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun; Conspiring with him how to load and bless With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves
run; To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees, And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
For Summer has o’erbrimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE 203
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Spares the next swath and all its twinèd flowers; And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Thou watchest the last oozings, hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, – thou hast thy music too, While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue; Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
Hedge-crickets sing, and now with treble soft
A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS
LORD, Thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell;
Both soft and dry.