Читать книгу Selected Poetry and Prose - Percy Bysshe Shelley - Страница 5

Rough wind, that moanest loud

Grief too sad for song;

Wild wind, when sullen cloud

Knells all the night long;

Sad storm whose tears are vain,

Bare woods, whose branches strain,

Deep caves and dreary main,—

Wail, for the world’s wrong!