雪莱歌颂云雀济慈却要歌颂夜莺
To a Skylark
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 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 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.
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awakened flowers,
All that ever was
Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
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 divine.
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.
What objects are the fountains
Of thy happy strain?
What fields, or waves, or mountains?
What shapes of sky or plain?
Ode to a Nightingale
John Keats
My heart aches,and a drowsy numbness pains
My sense,as though of hemlock I had drunk,
Or emptied some dull opiate to the drains
One minute past,and Lethe-wards had sunk:
’Tis not through envy of thy happy lot,
But being too happy in thine happiness,–
That thou,light winged Dryad of the trees,
In some melodious plot
Of beechen green,and shadows numberless
Singest of summer in full-throated ease.
O,for a draught of vintage! That hath been
Cool’d a long age in the deep-delved earth,
Tasting of Flora and the country green,
Dance,and Provencal song,and sun-burnt mirth!
O,for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true,the blushful Hippocrene,
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple stained mouth;
That I might drink,and leave the world unseen,
And with thee fade away into the forest dim:
Fade far away,dissolve,and quite forget
What thou among the leaves hast never known,
The weariness,the fever,and the fret
Here,where men sit and hear each other groan;
Where palsy shakes a few,sad,last gray hairs,
Where youth grows pale,and spectre-thin,and dies;
Where but to think is to be full of sorrow
And leaden-eyed despairs,
Where beauty cannot keep her lustrous eyes,
Or new Love pine at them beyond tomorrow.
Away!away!for I will fly to thee,
Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards,
But on the viewless wings of Poesy,
Though the dull brain perplexes and retards:
Already with thee!tender is the night,
And haply the Queen-Moon is on her throne,
Cluster’d around by all her starry Fays;
But here there is no light,
Save what from heaven is with the breezes blown
Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.
I cannot see what flowers are at my feet,
Nor what soft incense hangs upon the boughs,
But ,in embalmed darkness,guess each sweet
Wherewith the seasonable month endows
The grass,the thicket,and the fruit-tree wild;
White hawthorn,and the pastoral eglantine;
Fast fading violets cover’d up in leaves;
And mid-May’s eldest child,
The coming musk-rose,full of dewy wine,
The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.
Darkling I listen;and ,for many a time
I have been half in love with easeful Death
Call’d him soft names in many a mused rime
To take into the air my quiet breath;
Now more than ever seems it rich to die,
To cease upon the midnight with no pain,
While thou art pouring forth thy soul abroad
In such an ecstasy!
Still wouldst thou sing,and I have ears in vain—
To thy high requiem become a sod.
Thou wast not born for death,immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth,when,sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that oft-times hath
Charm’d magic casement,opening on the foam
Of perilous seas,in faery lands forlorn.
Forlorn! the very word is like a bell
To toll me back from thee to my sole self!
Adieu! The fancy cannot cheat so well
As she is fam’d to do,deceiving elf.
Adieu! adieu! Thy plaintive anthem fades
Past the near meadows,over the still stream,
Up the hill-side; and now ’tis buried deep
In the next valley-glades:
Was it a vision,or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:–do I wake or sleep?
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