On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon to the zenith's height,
The locks of the approaching storm.
He calls the wind the 'breath of Autumn's being,' the one
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds.
And cries to it:
If I were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;