A Dirge

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!

by Percy Bysshe Shelley

Comments (5)

Temptation, Beauty Death coil in an organ of a final shudder.
Hair-braided chestnut, coiled like a lyncher's rope, Eyes-fagots, Lips-old scars, or the first red blisters, Breath-the last sweet scent of cane, And her slim body, white as the ash of black flesh after flame.
Bizarre and incomprehensible.
This poem deserves to be poem of the day because ... uh, because ... I give up. Why?
a lovely nice portrait..thanks for share