Percy Bysshe Shelley

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 light'ning
                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 overflow'd.

            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 aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view:

            Like a rose embower'd
                In its own green leaves,
            By warm winds deflower'd,
                Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves.

            Sound of vernal showers
                On the twinkling grass,
            Rain-awaken'd 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,
            Match'd with thine would be all
                But an empty vaunt—
A thin 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.

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About the poet
Percy Bysshe Shelley
By the same poet
Music, when Soft Voices die
Hymn of Pan
The Invitation
The Moon
Ode to the West Wind
The Indian Serenade
From the Arabic: An Imitation
To ——
The Question
Related books
Percy Bysshe Shelley at amazon.com

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