Ode To A Skylark — P. B. Shelley
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 bright’ning,
Thou dost float and run;
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
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;
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
With thy voice is loud,
As when night is bare,
From one lonely cloud
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
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,
Singing hymns unbidden
Till the world is wrought
To Sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not;
Like a high-born maiden
In a palace tower,
Soothing her love-laden
Soul in secret hour
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
Like a glow-worm golden
In a dell of dew,
Scattering unbeholden
Its aerial hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view;
Like a rose embower’d
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower’d
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves.
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken’d flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, the music doth surpass.
Teach us, sprite or bird,
What sweet thoguths are thine!
I have never heard
Praise of love or wine
That panted forth a flood or rapture so divine.
Chorus hymeneal,
Or triumphal chaunt,
Match’d ith thine would be all
But an empty vaunt—
A thing wherein we feel there is some bidden want.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strains?
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,
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
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 ground!
Teach me half the gladness
That thy brain must know,
Such harmonious madness
From my lips would flow
The world should listen then — as I am listening now!
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The skylark is greeted as a cheerful spirit. It could never have been a bird. For it sends down sweet music from near heaven. The music is not merely sweet, but also copious, and it is sung effortlessly.
The bird seems to be flying up higher and higher, like a column of fire towering upwards. It sings and soars at the same time.
While the sun is setting, the bird flies about singing. It seems like the very spirit of happiness. Even thought it is evening, the music continues to be fresh and effortless. After sunset, the bird continues flying. During day and night, it is always heard, but it remains unseen.
The morning star shines brightly before daybreak, but at dawn fades, though we still feel that it is there. Similarly, from the music of the bird, we can sense its presence.
It fills the earth and air with its sweet music, like the moon shedding its light all over the world.
We do not know anything about the bird, except that it rains out music clouds, lit by a rainbow, sending out showers.
The bird, however, can be understood in some way by comparing it with what we know better. It is like a poet remains unknown, but whose work influences he hopes and feelings of the world. Again, it is like a princess in the palace tower, who cannot be seen, but whose love-songs can be heard. It can also be compared to a glow-worm hidden amidst dew, but is a centre of radiating light. A rose hidden among its own leaves, but spreading out perfume, is like the invisible skylark whose music is heard.
Everything joyous, clear, and fresh, like the sound of rain in spring or the blossoming of flowers in rain, is less delightful than the skylark’s music. For the song of the skylark is an expression of perfect rapture. The poet wonders what thoughts could have induced such pure joy. Marriage songs or music celebrating a victory may be full of joy. But even they do not express happiness in all its perfection.
The poet wonders about the source of the ecstatic music of the bird. Is it inspired by river or sea, sky, mountain, or plain? Is it due to love for other birds? How does the skylark manage to remain unaware of sorrow?
The bird is so full of joy that it can never have felt listlessness, not experienced annoyance. Human love starts in joy but ends in satiation. The skylark continues to love without experiencing satiation.
The bird must clearly know the truth about death which gives peace of mind. Otherwise, the music cannot be so clear and continuous. Men think of the past and future. They are always discontented with the present. Even when they laugh sincerely, they suffer from some hidden sorrow. Their sweetest songs are based on tragic themes. Even if men give up hate, pride, and fear, and even if there should be no need for them to weep, even then their joy will be less perfect than the skylark’s.
The skylark never seems to be resting on the earth. Its musical talent is needed by the poet more than all human music and all the riches of wisdom written down in books.
The poet begs the skylark to teach him to experience half of its joy. That would be sufficient to make him write poetry that will attract the world’s attention, even as the bird’s music has now made him listen to it with undivided attention.
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