Ode To The West Wind — P. B. Shelley
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 airy 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,
Lulled 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 grey with fear,
And tremble and despoil themselves: Oh, hear!
IV
If I were a dead leaf, thou mightiest 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 seemed 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 chained and bowed
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 withered leaves to quicken a new birth!
And, by the incantation of this verse,
Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth
Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind!
Be through my lips to unawakened earth
The trumpet of a prophecy! O, Wind,
If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind?
----
The wild west wind represents to Shelley one of the invisible forces of Nature whose presence he could feel everywhere. He is conscious of a strange affinity between himself and this all-pervading power. In this noble ode, he makes an impassioned appeal to the west wind to instil in him the same courage and hope it instils into everything in Nature.
The poem commences with an apostrophe to the wild west wind which has the very essence of the autumn season in it. The dried and withered leaves feel the unseen presence of the wind, and are driven before it like ghosts fleeing from an enchanter. The leaves of various colours, resembling crowds suffering from plague, are swept along with incredible force by the west wind. It is, however, a preserver as well as a destroyer. It acts as a chariot to the winged seeds and takes them along to their dark wintry bed, where they rest throughout the bitter winter. When spring comes, gentle zephyr will awaken them to life. Flowers will spring up everywhere with beautiful colours and perfume the air.
The clouds also feel the might of the west wind. They are like leaves falling from tangled branches of a gigantic tree high in the sky. They are of Heaven and Ocean. They are messengers of rain and lightning. Shaken by the wind they are driven into confused masses, of clouds from the dim verge of the horizon to the zenith’s height. They appear to the poet like the curls raised up by a breeze, on the head of some fierce Maenad (a frenzied worshipper of Bacchus, the god of wine). Then they shower rain. The west wind seems to sing the dirge of the dying year, to which the closing night will be the dome of a vast sepulchre, vaulted over by the clouds from which will burst black rain, fire, and hail.
The Mediterranean is disturbed in its summer dreams and roused from its long sleep by the west wind. It has been sleeping, lulled by the gentle murmur of the clear streams, and sweetly dreaming of palaces and towns over-grown with moss and reflected in its own placid waters. So cloying is the sweetness of these visions that the sense faints picturing them. Even the water of the Atlantic are divided into chasms by the wind. When the west wind in its fury sweeps over them, the vegetation at the bottom of the sea recognizes its voice, dreads it, suddenly grows grey with fear, trembles and sheds all its leaves.
In the concluding stanzas of the Ode, Shelley voices a prayer to the wild west wind. If he had been a dead leaf that it might bear, a swift cloud to fly with it, or a wave to pant beneath its power and share the impulse of its strength, we could have been happy. If he had at least preserved the dreams and ideals of his boyhood, when it was no vain hope to attempt to outstrip the speed of the west wind, he could have dispensed with this prayer. Age has brought him bitterness and disappointments. His ideals have been shattered. Worldly customs and conventions weigh down one who is, like the west wind, tameless and swift and proud. He has fallen on the thorns of life and is bleeding. He passionately appeals to the west wind to lift him as a wave, a leaf, or a cloud, and save him from further agony.
Like the forest, he wishes to become a passive instrument through which the wind can express itself. What does it matter, he askes, if his leaves also are falling like the leaves of the forest? The mighty harmonies of the wild west wind can take a melancholy autumnal tone from both. The very sadness of the music will add to its sweetness.
The poet calls on the impetuous and fierce spirit of the west wind to inspire him, and drive away his dead thoughts like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth. He prays for his words to spread among mankind like ashes and sparks from an unextinguished hearth. Through his lips, the west wind should deliver this great message of optimism and hope — ‘If winter comes, can spring be far behind?’
The poem concludes on a note of hope. Shelley’s ideals may have been shattered, but he has not lost faith. He is sure that better times are in sight which would prove that his dreams have not been in vain.
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