To-night the winds begin to rise

And roar from yonder dropping day:

The last red leaf is whirl’d away,

The rooks are blown about the skies;

The forest crack’d, the waters curl’d,

The cattle huddled on the lea;

And wildly dash’d on tower and tree

The sunbeam strikes along the world:

And but for fancies, which aver

That all thy motions gently pass

Athwart a plane of molten glass,

I scarce could brook the strain and stir

That makes the barren branches loud;

And but for fear it is not so,

The wild unrest that lives in woe

Would dote and pore on yonder cloud

That rises upward always higher,

And onward drags a labouring breast,

And topples round the dreary west,

A looming bastion fringed with fire.





Lord Alfred Tennyson

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