Shelley’s “Song” follows a young woman who has been seduced, betrayed, and utterly abandoned. The speaker begins by comparing natural coldness and grief to something far worse: the scorn of a former lover and the sneer of a false friend. That emotional brutality propels the story. The woman, penniless and desperate, goes to the man’s door to beg food for her baby, but he laughs and turns away. She says nothing, wrings out her wet hair, and wanders onto the dark Welsh mountain of Penmanmawr. There, in a fit of delirious anguish, she weaves wildflowers into a garland, soaks it with tears, and flings it to the wind, crying out against the “cruel” one who ruined her. The poem’s mood is bleak and chilling, full of howling winds and craggy heights. Yet after she dies, a gentler note appears: her grave is visited only by spirits of peace, and the speaker insists that no betrayal can rob her of the innocent grief she is owed.
Song — Summary
Cold, cold is the blast when December is howling, Cold are the damps on a dying man's brow,-- Stern are the seas when the wild waves are rolling, And sad is the grave where a loved one lies low; But colder is scorn from the being who loved thee, More stern is the sneer from the friend who has proved thee, More sad are the tears when their sorrows have moved thee, Which mixed with groans anguish and wild madness flow--
And ah! poor -- has felt all this horror, Full long the fallen victim contended with fate: 'Till a destitute outcast abandoned to sorrow, She sought her babe's food at her ruiner's gate-- Another had charmed the remorseless betrayer, He turned laughing aside from her moans and her prayer, She said nothing, but wringing the wet from her hair, Crossed the dark mountain side, though the hour it was late. 'Twas on the wild height of the dark Penmanmawr, That the form of the wasted -- reclined; She shrieked to the ravens that croaked from afar, And she sighed to the gusts of the wild sweeping wind.-- I call not yon rocks where the thunder peals rattle, I call not yon clouds where the elements battle, But thee, cruel -- I call thee unkind!'--
Then she wreathed in her hair the wild flowers of the mountain, And deliriously laughing, a garland entwined, She bedewed it with tears, then she hung o'er the fountain, And leaving it, cast it a prey to the wind. 'Ah! go,' she exclaimed, 'when the tempest is yelling, 'Tis unkind to be cast on the sea that is swelling, But I left, a pitiless outcast, my dwelling, My garments are torn, so they say is my mind--'
Not long lived --, but over her grave Waved the desolate form of a storm-blasted yew, Around it no demons or ghosts dare to rave, But spirits of peace steep her slumbers in dew. Then stay thy swift steps mid the dark mountain heather, Though chill blow the wind and severe is the weather, For perfidy, traveller! cannot bereave her, Of the tears, to the tombs of the innocent due.--