Percy
Bysshe
Shelley
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
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
odors
plain
and
hill;
Wild
Spirit，which
art
moving
everywhere;
Destroyer
and
preserver;hear，O
hear!
Thou
on
whose
stream，’mid
the
steep
sky’s
commotion，
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
aery
surge，
Like
the
bright
hair
uplifted
from
the
head
Of
some
fierce
Maenad，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
Black
rain，and
fire，and
hail
will
burst:O
hear!
Thou
who
didst
waken
from
his
summer
dreams
The
blue
Mediterranean，where
he
lay，
Lulled
by
the
coil
of
his
crystalline
streams，
Beside
a
pumice
isle
in
Baiae’s
bay，
And
saw
in
sleep
old
palaces