Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is: What if m — Percy Bysshe Shelley

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!

Ode to the West Wind, l. 57

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