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!
More verses by Percy Bysshe Shelley
- An Exhortation
- To Night
- England In 1819
- When The Lamp Is Shattered
- Alastor: Or, The Spirit Of Solitude