A Dirge Poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
A Dirge
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!
Nature does weep over the wrong deeds of the world.....gets wild and attacks with disasters....Shelley is too eminent- 10
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10/15/2024 8:47:03 AM # 1.0.0
The pathetic fallacy is remarkable.