by Percy Bysshe Shelley


 Thou on whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion,  Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed, Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean, 
 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. Thou dirge 
 Of the dying year, to which this closing night Will be the dome of a vast sepulchre,  Vaulted with all thy congregated might 
 Of vapours, from whose solid atmosphere Black rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh, hear!