Make me thy lyre,
even 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 wither'd leaves
to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation
of this verse,
Scatter, as from
an unextinguish'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?
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