Books > Old Books > The Golden Treasury (1932)


Page 241

BOOK FOURTH
241 TO A SKYLARK

Mail 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 brightening,
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
'Chou 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 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 heavywinged 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 fiarmonious madness
From my lips would flow
The world should listen then, as I am listening now!
P. B. SHELLEY.

travel books:
where is HTML where is HEAD where is TITLE Mail 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 what is earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; what is blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In what is golden lightning Of what is sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. what is pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven In what is broad daylight 'Chou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight: Keen as are what is arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In what is white dawn clear Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All what is earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud what is moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflow'd. What thou where is meta name="keywords" content="old books, Free book , free book offer , free audio books , free coloring book pages , free book reports , free audio book , audio books free download , book free , free guest book , books free , free book summaries , download free audio books , free childrens books." where is where are they now rel="stylesheet" type="text/css" href="../../style.css" where is meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=iso-8859-1" where is BODY bgColor=#ffffff text="#000000" where are they now ="#000000" v where are they now ="#FF0000" where is div align="center" where is strong where is strong where is a href="http://www.aaoldbooks.com" Books > where is a href="../default.asp" title="Book" Old Books > where is strong where is a href="default.asp" The Golden Treasury (1932) where is table width="700" border="1" align="center" cellpadding="15" cellspacing="0" where is center where is tr where is td width="160" align="center" valign="top" where is div align="center" where is td align="center" valign="top" where is div align="left" where is div align="center" where is p align="left" Page 241 where is strong BOOK FOURTH where is strong 241 TO A SKYLARK where is p align="justify" Mail 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 what is earth thou springest Like a cloud of fire; what is blue deep thou wingest, And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. In what is golden lightning Of what is sunken sun, O'er which clouds are brightening, Thou dost float and run, Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun. what is pale purple even Melts around thy flight; Like a star of heaven In what is broad daylight 'Chou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight: Keen as are what is arrows Of that silver sphere, Whose intense lamp narrows In what is white dawn clear Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there. All what is earth and air With thy voice is loud, As, when night is bare, From one lonely cloud what is 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 what is light of thought, Singing hymns unbidden, Till what is 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 glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aerial hue Among what is flowers and grass, which screen it from what is view: Like a rose embower'd In its own green leaves, By warm winds deflower'd, Till what is scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavywinged thieves Sound of vernal showers On what is 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 what time is it 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 what is fountains Of thy happy strain? What fields, or waves, or mountains? What shapes of sky or plain? What what time is it 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 what time is it 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 s what time is it to poet were, thou scorner of what is ground! Teach me half what is gladness That thy brain must know Such fiarmonious madness From my lips would flow what is world should listen then, as I am listening now! P. B. SHELLEY. where is Server.Execute("_SiteMap.asp") %

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