Percy Bysshe Shelley

(1792-1822 / Horsham / England)

A Dirge


Rough wind, that moanest loud
Grief too sad for song;
Wild wind, when sullen cloud
Knells all the night long;
Sad storm whose tears are vain,
Bare woods, whose branches strain,
Deep caves and dreary main,--
Wail, for the world’s wrong!

Submitted: Thursday, April 01, 2010
Edited: Monday, May 09, 2011

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