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To A SKY-LARK / 817
To a Sky-Lark1
Hail to thee, blithe Spirit! Bird thou never wert? That from Heaven, or near it, Pourest thy full heart 5 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, 10 And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
In the golden lightning Of the sunken Sun? O'er which clouds are brightning, Thou dost float and run; is Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
The pale purple even0 evening Melts around thy flight, Like a star of Heaven In the broad day-light 20 Thou art unseen,?but yet I hear thy shrill delight,
Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere,2 Whose intense lamp narrows In the white dawn clear 25 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 30 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 35 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 40 To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
1. The European skylark is a small bird that sings 2. The morning star, Venus. only in flight, often when it is too high to be visible.
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81 8 / PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
Like a high-born maiden In a palace-tower, Soothing her love-laden Soul in secret hour, 45 With music sweet as love?which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue 50 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 55 Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves:3
60Sound of vernal' showersOn the twinkling grass, Rain-awakened flowers, All that ever was Joyous, and clear and fresh, thy music doth surpass. springtime 65Teach us, Sprite' or Rird, What sweet thoughts are thine; I have never heard Praise of love or wine That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine: spirit 70Chorus Hymeneal4 Or triumphal chaunt Matched with thine would be all Rut an empty vaunt, A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want. 75What 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? soWith thy clear keen joyance Languor cannot be? Shadow of annoyance Never came near thee; Thou Iovest?but ne'er knew love's sad satiety. Waking or asleep, Thou of death must deem
Things more true and deep
3. The 'warm winds,' line 53. 4. Marital (from Hymen, Greek god of marriage).
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T o NIGH T / 81 9 85Than we mortals dream, Or how could thy notes flow in such a chrystal stream? 90We 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. 95Yet 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. IOOBetter 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! 105Teach 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. 1820 1820 To Night 5Swiftly walk o'er the western wave, Spirit of Night! Out of the misty eastern cave Where, all the long and lone daylight Thou wovest dreams of joy and fear, Which make thee terrible and dear, Swift be thy flight! 10Wrap thy form in a mantle grey, Star-inwrought! Blind with thine hair the eyes of day, Kiss her until she be wearied out Then wander o'er City and sea and land, Touching all with thine opiate wand? Come, long-sought! 15 When I arose and saw the dawn I sighed for thee; When Light rode high, and the dew was gone, And noon lay heavy on flower and tree,
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82 0 / PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
And the weary Day1 turned to his rest,
20 Lingering like an unloved guest,
I sighed for thee. Thy brother Death came, and cried,
Wouldst thou me?
Thy sweet child Sleep, the filmy-eyed,
25 Murmured like a noontide bee,
Shall I nestle near thy side?
Wouldst thou me? and I replied,
No, not thee! Death will come when thou art dead,
30 Soon, too soon?
