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. 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 stars are gone, And the white sun is glowing. As a budding tree that leans Towards the radiant sky, With a beauty so outgrown— What rain beats upon— Dew on ample flower.

— Percy Bysshe Shelley

• Percy Bysshe Shelley