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"The Witch of Atlas" is a fantastical, if not flowery, poem which Shelley evidently dedicated to his wife Mary with a few extra stanzas at the beginning addressing her. Now, it's admittedly not strong in its structure concerning plot, but gosh this is interesting at the very core. So a Witch lives on the mountain that Atlas lives on. She makes a hermaphrodite, neither male nor female by classical definition. Various difficult-to-follow adventures ensue. And that's all there really is to it.
So when I did know what was going on, this was a nice little poem. But for the most part, Shelley has a problem when it comes to longer works, which is that he is much too flowery and philosophical to create understandable content. Very lofty stuff, but a little too much.
Mary's complaint that nothing happens in this work betrays a fundamental misunderstanding about the nature of this sort of poem. As well to complain that nothing moves in a painting.
Idealistic and lush. Sparks great comparisons with Keats' La Belle Dame Sans Merci before the Witch in Shelley's Witch of Atlas takes on a contrarion form to what the word 'Witch' would enjoy, playing the role of a trickster Goddess of love and instruction in the ways of tameness. Shelley also begins to dwell on a distinct kind of androgyny in this poem as type of idealistic form. Worth a visit for enthusiasts of Romanticism for what the poem offers underneath its rather simplistic garb. Also PB is such a tease, if I were Mary, I'd never be very annoyed at yet another playful verse questioning my judgement on the usage of his time on a 'frivalty' such as 'The Witch of Atlas'. This is contradictory to Mary's opinion on Rosalind and Helen, where she actually wanted PB to finish what he thought was a light and insignificant poem, despite its decent length.
For what it is, I enjoyed this poem. I think perhaps the most profound or meaningful part for me was the final handful of verses in which the Witch gives dreams to those she observes sleeping. Death undone and injustice turned right. What a beautiful dream made all the more beautiful by the hope of that very promise being fulfilled when all is said and done.
This is bizarre and shitty. This is not a lyric but is perhaps his most incomprehensible poem. In this poetic fantasy appear glowing expression and exquisite imagery. To Keats, ‘the Witch is Beauty’: to E. E. Kellett, ‘she is creative Imagination’; to Grabo, ‘the earthly embodiment of love or Venus, the creative power of the universe’. This most horrible poem is composed in ottava rima.
"She spoke and wept: the dark and azure well Sparkled beneath the shower of her bright tears, And every little circlet where they fell Flung to the cavern−roof inconstant spheres And intertangled lines of light:a knell Of sobbing voices came upon her ears From those departing Forms, o'er the serene Of the white streams and of the forest green."