The fitful alternations of the rain,
When the chill wind, languid as with pain
Of its own heavy moisture, here and there
Drives through the gray and beamless atmosphere
More verses by Percy Bysshe Shelley
- Alas! This Is Not What I Thought Life Was
- Feelings Of A Republican On The Fall Of Bonaparte
- Death Is Here And Death Is There
- Despair
- Mont Blanc: Lines Written In The Vale Of Chamouni