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. 5

     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. 10

     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. 15

     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— 20

     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. 25

     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. 30

     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:— 35

     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: 40

     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: 45

     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: 50

     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-wingèd thieves. 55

     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. 60

     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. 65

     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. 70

     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? 75

     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. 80

     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? 85

     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. 90

     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. 95

     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! 100

     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