sky lark

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 day-light
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,