Monday, 3 October 2016

Poetry Revisited: Autumn: A Dirge by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Autumn: A Dirge

(from Posthumous Poems: 1824)

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,
And the Year
On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead,
Is lying.
Come, Months, come away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array;
Follow the bier
Of the dead cold Year,
And like dim shadows watch by her sepulchre.

The chill rain is falling, the nipped worm is crawling,
The rivers are swelling, the thunder is knelling
For the Year;
The blithe swallows are flown, and the lizards each gone
To his dwelling;
Come, Months, come away;
Put on white, black, and gray;
Let your light sisters play -
Ye, follow the bier
Of the dead cold Year,
And make her grave green with tear on tear.

Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
English Romantic poet


  1. Oh my. Winter will come soon enough. Do we have to admit it yet?

    1. I fear that we don't have a choice. Today the weather forecasts for Austria talk of snowfalls down to 900 metres above sea level. Not yet low enough to reach my town, but winter is inevitably looming - alas!


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