To A Skylark (eng.) (wiersz klasyka)

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 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 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 overflowed. 

  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 embowered
    In its own green leaves,
  By warm winds deflowered,
    Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. 

  Sound of vernal showers
    On the twinkling grass,
  Rain-awakened 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
  Matched 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!

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przysłano: 5 marca 2010

Percy Bysshe Shelley

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