Ode to the West Wind

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: O thou, Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed The wingèd seeds, where they lie cold and low, Each like a corpse within its grave, until Thine azure-aerials shall annul it, And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unfathom’d granary Dusk and drear, and their swarming motion Arise, in the freshness that warms and refreshes The forest that awakens to the sun; And be here, now, a blessing to the dead who mourn. And be thou one with all that breathe and live.

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

• Percy Bysshe Shelley