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ODE TO THE WEST WIND – Percy Bysshe Shelley 1 Oh wild West Wind, the spirit of Autumn, You whose invisible presence drives away dead leaves Like ghosts fleeing from a sorcerer, Yellow, black, pale, and feverish red, Thousands of them, diseased: Oh you, Who carry the seeds with wings to their dark winter resting place, Where they lie cold and low, like corpses in graves, Until your blue sister of Spring blows Her trumpet over the dreaming earth and fills it (Driving sweet buds like flocks feeding in the air) With vibrant colors and scents across plains and hills: Wild Spirit, moving everywhere; Destroyer and preserver; listen, oh listen! 2 You, in whose path, across the turbulent sky, Loose clouds are scattered like dead leaves from trees, Shaken from the tangled branches of Heaven and Ocean, Angels of rain and lightning: spread On the blue surface of your airy waves, Like bright hair lifted from the head Of a fierce Maenad, even from the faint edge Of the horizon to the highest point in the sky, The locks of the approaching storm. You, the dirge Of the dying year, for which this closing night Will be the dome of an immense tomb, Vaulted with all your accumulated strength Of vapors, from whose dense atmosphere Black rain, fire, and hail will burst: oh listen! 3 You who woke from his summer dreams The blue Mediterranean, where it lay, Lulled by the coils of its crystal streams, Beside a pumice isle in Baiae's bay, And saw in sleep old palaces and towers Quivering within the wave's intense light, All overgrown with blue moss and flowers So sweet that the senses fail to imagine them! You, For whose path the flat surface of the Atlantic Splits into chasms, while far below The sea blooms and the oozy woods that wear The lifeless foliage of the ocean, recognize
Your voice, and suddenly turn gray with fear, And tremble and shed their leaves: oh listen! 4 If I were a dead leaf that you could carry; If I were a swift cloud to fly with you; A wave to pant beneath your power, and share The impulse of your strength, only less free Than you, O uncontrollable! If only I were as I was in my childhood, and could be The companion of your wanderings over Heaven, As then, when surpassing your celestial speed Scarcely seemed a vision; I would never have struggled As I do now with you in prayer in my great need. Oh! lift me like a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy burden of time has chained and bowed One too much like you: untamable, swift, and proud. 5 Make me your lyre, just as the forest is: Even if my leaves are falling like its own! The tumult of your powerful harmonies Will take from both a deep, autumnal tone, Sweet even in sadness. Be you, fierce Spirit, My spirit! Be you me, impetuous one! Drive my dead thoughts across the universe Like withered leaves to bring about a new birth! And, by the magic of this verse, Scatter, as from an unquenchable hearth, Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind! Be through my lips the trumpet of a prophecy to the sleeping Earth! O Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? Summary "Ode to the West Wind" passionately addresses the wild nature of the west wind, portraying it as a force of both destruction and renewal. The speaker marvels at the wind's ability to scatter autumn leaves, likening them to fleeing ghosts and sickly individuals in their various hues. The wind serves as a chariot for seeds that settle into the earth for winter, awaiting the awakening call of the spring wind.
lyre played by the forest. This imagery portrays the speaker as a passive participant in the wind's grand orchestration, aligning himself with the wind's powerful agency. The speaker’s aspiration to merge with the West Wind stems from a desire to create something new and vibrant by sweeping away the old and lifeless. The wind’s influence on the speaker’s "dead thoughts" is envisioned as sparking a "new birth," symbolizing the emergence of fresh ideas or perhaps even social change. This transformative process rejects compromise with the stagnant past, advocating instead for a cleansing destruction that paves the way for innovative creation. Ultimately, the speaker's plea to be infused with the West Wind's vigor underscores a profound yearning for renewal and transformation, both within himself and in the broader context of creative and societal evolution.
You, the unruly west wind, are the essence of the Fall. You are invisible, but you scatter the fallen leaves: they look like ghosts running away from a witch or wizard. The leaves are yellow and black, white and wild red. They look like crowds of sick people. You carry the seeds, as if you're their chariot, down to the earth where they'll sleep all winter. They lie there, cold and humble, like dead bodies in their graves, until your blue sister, the Spring wind, blows her trumpet and wakes up the earth. Then she brings out the buds. They are like flocks of sheep; they feed in the open air. And she fills the meadows and the hills with sweet smells and beautiful colors. Unruly west wind, moving everywhere: you are both an exterminator and a savior. Please listen to me!
In the high and whirling reaches of the sky, you send the clouds twirling: they look like dead leaves, shaken loose from the branches of the heavens and the sea. They are like angels, full of rain and lightning. Or they are scattered across the blue sky, like the blond hair of a wildly dancing girl who is a follower of Dionysus. The clouds stretch from the horizon to the top of the sky like the hair of the coming storm. West wind, you sad song of the end of the year. The night sky will be like the dome of a vast tomb, the clouds you gathered like archways running across it. And from the solid top of that tomb, dark rain, lightning, and hail will fall down. Listen to me!
You woke the Mediterranean from its summer dreams. That blue sea, which lay wrapped in its crystal-clear currents, was snoozing near an island made of volcanic rock in the Bay of Baiae, near Naples. In the waters of the bay you saw the ruins of old palaces and towers, now submerged in the water's thicker form of daylight. These ruins were overgrown with sea plants that looked like blue moss and flowers. They are so beautiful that I faint when I think of them. You—whose path turns the smooth surface of the Atlantic Ocean into tall waves, while deep below the surface sea-flowers and forests of seaweed, which have leaves with no sap, hear your voice and turn gray from fear, trembling, losing their flowers and leaves—listen to me, wind!
If only I was a dead leaf, you might carry me. You might let me fly with you if I was a cloud. Or if I was a wave that you drive forward, I would share your strength—though I’d be less free than you, since no one can control you. If only I could be the way I was when I was a child, when I was your friend, wandering with you across the sky—then it didn’t seem crazy to imagine that I could be as fast as you are—then I wouldn’t have called out to you, prayed to you, in desperation. Please lift me up like a wave, a leaf, or a cloud! I am falling into life’s sharp thorns and bleeding! Time has put me in shackles and diminished my pride, though I was once as proud, fast, and unruly as you.
Make me into your musical instrument, just as the forest is when you blow through it. So what if my leaves are falling like the forest’s leaves. The ruckus of your powerful music will bring a deep, autumn music out of both me and the forest. It will be beautiful even though it’s sad. Unruly soul, you should become my soul. You should become me, you unpredictable creature. Scatter my dead thoughts across the universe like fallen leaves to inspire something new and exciting. Let this poem be a prayer that scatters ashes and sparks—as though from a fire that someone forgot to put out—throughout the human race. Speak through me, and in that way, turn my words into a prediction of the future. O wind, if winter is on its way, isn’t Spring going to follow it soon?
