Quacks
When you invited me to roast Shelley on the beach, I thought I was going to a clam bake!
| Born | 4 August 1792 Field Place, Horsham, Sussex, England[1] |
|---|---|
| Died | 8 July 1822 (aged 29) Gulf of La Spezia, Kingdom of Sardinia (now Italy) |
| Occupation | Poet, dramatist, essayist, novelist |
| Alma mater | University College, Oxford |
| Literary movement | Romanticism |
| Spouse | Harriet Westbrook (m.
1811-1816; her death) Mary Shelley (m. 1816–1822; his death) |
Ode to the West
Wind
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I
O wild
West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,
Thou,
from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are
driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow,
and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken
multitudes: O thou,
Who
chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The
winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each
like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine
azure sister of the Spring shall blow
Her
clarion o'er the dreaming earth, and fill
(Driving
sweet buds like flocks to feed in air)
With
living hues and odours plain and hill:
Wild
Spirit, which art moving everywhere;
Destroyer
and preserver; hear, oh hear!
II
Thou on
whose stream, mid the steep sky's commotion,
Loose
clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,
Shook
from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels
of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the
blue surface of thine aëry surge,
Like
the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some
fierce Maenad, even from the dim verge
Of the
horizon to the zenith's height,
The
locks of the approaching storm. Thou dirge
Of the
dying year, to which this closing night
Will be
the dome of a vast sepulchre,
Vaulted
with all thy congregated might
Of
vapours, from whose solid atmosphere
Black
rain, and fire, and hail will burst: oh hear!
III
Thou
who didst waken from his summer dreams
The
blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull'd
by the coil of his crystalline streams,
Beside
a pumice isle in Baiae's bay,
And saw
in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering
within the wave's intenser day,
All
overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So
sweet, the sense faints picturing them! Thou
For
whose path the Atlantic's level powers
Cleave
themselves into chasms, while far below
The
sea-blooms and the oozy woods which wear
The
sapless foliage of the ocean, know
Thy
voice, and suddenly grow gray with fear,
And
tremble and despoil themselves: oh hear!
IV
If I
were a dead leaf thou mightest bear;
If I
were a swift cloud to fly with thee;
A wave
to pant beneath thy power, and share
The
impulse of thy strength, only less free
Than
thou, O uncontrollable! If even
I were
as in my boyhood, and could be
The
comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven,
As
then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed
Scarce
seem'd a vision; I would ne'er have striven
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!
A heavy
weight of hours has chain'd and bow'd
One too
like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.
V
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?