Ode
to a Skylark
by Percy
Bysshe Shelley
|
|
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 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-wingéd 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.
|
|
Percy Bysshe Shelley | Classic
Poems |
|
|
|
[ Ode to a Skylark ] [ Ode to the West Wind ] [ Ozymandias ] [ The Mask of Anarchy ] |
