Fragment: 'The Rude Wind Is Singing'
The rude wind is singing The dirge of the music dead; The cold worms are clinging Where kisses were lately fed.
Percy Bysshe Shelley
The rude wind is singing The dirge of the music dead; The cold worms are clinging Where kisses were lately fed.
Four lines sketch a stark scene: a harsh wind howls a funeral song for music that has died, while cold worms cling to a spot where kisses once fed. It’s a compact vision of love’s decay. Yesterday’s passion—warm, alive, sweet—has been replaced by something raw and chilling.
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