« AnkstesnisTęsti »
In the broad daylight,
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill
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
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is
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,
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soul in secret hour
Wing With music sweet as love which overflows her
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Its aërial hue
Among the flowers and grass which screen it from
Like a rose embow'red
By its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflow'red,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
All that ever was,
Joyous and clear and fresh,-thy music doth
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.
Or triumphal chant,
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 joyɛnce
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,
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest
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
Teach me half the gladness
From my lips would flow
The world should listen then as I am listening
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
Sir Lark and King Sun: A Parable "Good morrow, my lord!" in the sky alone, Sang the lark as the sun ascended his throne. "Shine on me, my lord; I only am come, Of all your servants, to welcome you home. I have flown right up, a whole hour, I swear, To catch the first shine of your golden hair."
"Must I thank you then," said the king,
For flying so high and hating the dark?
You ask a full cup for half a thirst:
Half was love of me, and half love to be first.
But waits till I come: that's as much to
And King Sun hid his head in a turban of cloud,
But he flew up higher, and thought, “Anon
So he flew with the strength of a lark he flew;
And not one gleam of the golden hair
Came through the depths of the misty air;