To a Skylark

    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 #CCCCFF 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 aerial 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 these heavy-wingèd 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 chaunt

    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！