Percy Byshe Shelley

The warm sun is failing,
the bleak wind is wailing,
The bare boughs are sighing;
the pale flowers are dying, [bad word] months [bad word] away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array;
Follow the bier
Of the dead, cold year,

The chill rain is falling;
the night worm is crawling,
The rivers are swelling,
the thunder is knelling,

The blithe swallows are flown,
and the lizards each gone
And the earth’s a deathbed,
in a shroud of leaves dead [bad word] months [bad word] away,
From November to May,
In your saddest array;
Follow the bier
Of the dead, cold year.