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, Hear, oh hear! Among the stretching branches bend, Thy voice; and cry out, that the bark may thunder With echoes of agéd years; long lost in slumber, For the grove’s rich whisper is thy song, still a-folks, Enwrapped in twilight’s dream, with all thy dreams’ brooks.

Scatter, as from a storehouse, your dry shrouds; And where they once were, let the bowers bloom! Breathe through a chasm, fill the sky with clouds, The evening air with hope from the tomb.

• John Masefield