all about axiom, page-5

O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn' being,
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,

As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need.
Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud!
I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed!!

The trumpet of a prophecy! O Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?