To a Skylark
Hail to thee, blithe spirit!
Bird that never wert,
That from heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of premeditated 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 lightening
Of the setting sun,
O'er which clouds are brightening,
Thou dost float and run
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
Percy Bysshe Shelley