Make me thy lyre, ev'n as the forest is: What if my leaves are falling like its own!
The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep autumnal tone
Sweet though in sadness. be thou, Spirit fierce, My spirit! be thou me impetuous one!
Drive my dead thoughts over the universe, like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth;
And by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguishe'd hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawaken'd earth The trumpet of a prophecy! O wind, If winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
excerpt from Ode to the West Wind, Shelley