Autumn: A Dirge
Percy Bysshe Shelley 1792 (Horsham) – 1822 (Lerici)
The warm sun is falling, the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,
And the Year
On the earth is 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.
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 31, 2023
- 40 sec read
- 155 Views
Quick analysis:
Scheme | aabxaCccdBb aabxaCccdBx |
---|---|
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 946 |
Words | 134 |
Stanzas | 2 |
Stanza Lengths | 11, 11 |
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"Autumn: A Dirge" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 8 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem/29044/autumn:-a-dirge>.
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