Explore "Autumn: a Dirge" by Percy Bysshe Shelley on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
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.