TO A SKYLARK
by: Percy Bysshe Shelley
(1792-1822)
- AIL to thee,
blithe Spirit!
- Bird thou never wert,
- That from Heaven, or near it,
- Pourest thy full heart
- In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
-
- Higher still and higher
- From the earth thou springest
- Like a cloud of fire;
- The blue deep thou wingest,
- And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
-
- In the golden lightning
- Of the sunken sun,
- O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
- Thou dost float and run;
- Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
-
- The pale purple even
- Melts around thy flight;
- Like a star of Heaven,
- In the broad daylight
- Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,
-
- Keen as are the arrows
- Of that silver sphere
- Whose intense lamp narrows
- In the white dawn clear
- Until we hardly see -- we feel, that it is there.
-
- All the earth and air
- With thy voice is loud,
- As, when night is bare,
- From one lonely cloud
- The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflowed.
-
- What thou art we know not;
- What is most like thee?
- From rainbow clouds there flow not
- Drops so bright to see
- As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
-
- Like a poet hidden
- In the light of thought,
- Singing hymns unbidden,
- Till the world is wrought
- To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
-
- Like a high-born maiden
- In a palace tower,
- Soothing her love-laden
- Soul in secret hour
- With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
-
- Like a glow-worm golden
- In a dell of dew,
- Scattering unbeholden
- Its aërial hue
- Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
-
- Like a rose embowered
- In its own green leaves,
- By warm winds deflowered,
- Till the scent it gives
- Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-wingèd
thieves.
-
- Sound of vernal showers
- On the twinkling grass,
- Rain-awakened flowers,
- All that ever was,
- Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass:
-
- Teach us, Sprite or Bird,
- What sweet thoughts are thine:
- I have never heard
- Praise of love or wine
- That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
-
- Chorus Hymeneal,
- Or triumphal chant,
- Matched with thine would be all
- But an empty vaunt,
- A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
-
- What objects are the fountains
- Of thy happy strain?
- What fields, or waves, or mountains?
- What shapes of sky or plain?
- What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
-
- With thy clear keen joyance,
- Languor cannot be:
- Shadow of annoyance
- Never came near thee:
- Thou lovest -- but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
-
- Waking or asleep,
- Thou of death must deem
- Things more true and deep
- Than we mortals dream,
- Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
-
- We look before and after,
- And pine for what is not:
- Our sincerest laughter
- With some pain is fraught;
- Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
-
- Yet, if we could scorn
- Hate, and pride, and fear;
- If we were things born
- Not to shed a tear,
- I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
-
- Better than all measures
- Of delightful sound,
- Better than all treasures
- That in books are found,
- Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
-
- Teach me half the gladness
- That thy brain must know,
- Such harmonious madness
- From my lips would flow
- The world should listen then -- as I am listening now.
'To a Skylark' is reprinted from
English Poems. Ed. Edward Chauncey Baldwin. New York:
American Book Company, 1908. |
MORE POEMS BY PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY |
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