Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing…
– Ode to the West Wind, Percy Bysshe Shelley
October 1819, Florence. Stung by fierce criticisms of his poetry and talk of the “disgusting picture” of his private life, Shelley has been in the habit of taking long solitary walks along the banks of the Arno. He has recently heard news of the massacre in Manchester – where the cavalry charged into a crowd of 70,000 demonstrators protesting for the reform of parliamentary representation. So he pours himself into one of his finest poems: ...
There are approximately 981 more words in this article.
To read the rest of this article, please buy this issue, or join the Resurgence Trust. As a member you will receive access to the complete archive of magazines from May 1966.
If you are already a member, please Sign in
