In the broad daylight, On the Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill Wing 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 As, when night is bare, 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, To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soothing her love-laden Chorus hymeneal 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 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, Our sincerest laughter On the On the With some pain is fraught; Wing Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought. Yet, if we could scorn 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 now. PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. Sir Lark and King Sun: A Parable Of all your servants, to welcome you home. “Must I thank you then," said the king, “Sir 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. 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; On the Wing |