Percy Bysshe Shelley

A Dirge Rough wind, that moanest loud grief too sad for a song; wild wind, when sullen cloud knells all the night long: sad storm, whose tear are vain, bare woods, whose branches strain, deep caves and dreary main, wail for the worlds wrong.

A Dirge

Rough wind, that moanest loud
grief too sad for a song;
wild wind, when sullen cloud
knells all the night long:
sad storm, whose tear are vain,
bare woods, whose branches strain,
deep caves and dreary main,
wail for the worlds wrong.

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