Sunday, March 21, 2010

Poetry Sunday (03-21-10 edition)

    This is one of those really long poems. So this is the "abridged" version in which I cut out the middle...

    To a Skylark

    by Percy Bysshe 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 light'ning
    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.

    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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Poetry Sunday (03-21-10 edition)

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