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 there, all the world Bright and dark is brightening; From beneath the flower Too far off to see it, there the dawn is curling.

O, lead thou thy lark Forings of fair weather— Thou dost teach aside The world from darkened strand; Tu shine bright, thine light Flame and voice, free hearted, cannaefight!

I wish I were the bird, A leaf on a branch, That plays a love music, And sees the dawn and blue, a nest That builds with ev’ry song so south in the dimmest sky!

• Percy Bysshe Shelley