Ode
To A Skylark
by: Percy Bysshe Shelley
To A Skylark
To A Skylark
Hail
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
aereal 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 those heavy-winged 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.