West wind

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 airy 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 sepulcher
Vaulted with all thy congregated might

Of vapors, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst, oh, 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 and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day

All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet