O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou, from whose unseens presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

Yellow, and black, and pale, amd hectic red,
Pestilence-striken multitudes: O Thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed

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.

Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black rain and fire and hail will burst: O hear

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh! lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!