ODE TO THE WEST WIND
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 wither'd leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguish'd hearth,
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth.
The trumpet of a prophecy! Oh Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?