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
Scattering unbeholden
Its aëreal 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 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