From cape to cape, with a bridge like shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof; The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair, Is the million-coloured bow; The Sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, While the moist Earth was laughing below. VI. I am the daughter of Earth and Water, I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; For after the rain, when with never a stain The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise, and unbuild it again. TO A SKYLARK. 1. Hail to thee, blithe spirit Bird thou never wert- In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. II. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, (1820.) And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest III. 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. IV. 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 V. Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there. VI. 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 VII. 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: VIII. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: IX. Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower. Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love which overflows her bower: X. Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Its aërial hue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view: XI. 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. XII. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, All that ever was, Joyous and clear and fresh,-thy music doth surpass. XIII. 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 divire. XIV. 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 XV. 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? XVI. 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. XVII. 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? XVIII. 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 XIX. 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. XX. Better than all measures Of delightful sound, That in books are found, Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground! XXI. Teach me half the gladness The world should listen then as I am listening now. (1820.) FROM 'EPIPSYCHIDION: VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE NOBLE AND UNFORTUNATE LADY EMILIA VIVIANI, NOW IMPRISONED IN THE CONVENT OF ST. ANNE, PISA.' Spouse! sister! angel! pilot of the fate Whose course has been so starless! O too late For in the fields of immortality My spirit should at first have worshipped thine, Or should have moved beside it on this earth, Such difference without discord as can make As trembling leaves in a continuous air. Thy wisdom speaks in me, and bids me dare Whose doctrine is that each one should select Out of the crowd a mistress or a friend, And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend To cold oblivion; though it is in the code Of modern morals, and the beaten road |