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  • kapagindaki dizeler shelley'in to a sky-lark adli siirinden alintidir. siirin tamami soyle:

    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 road day-light
    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 ther 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 now:

    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
    i's 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 those heavy-wingèd 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 or love or wine
    that painted forth a flood of rapture so divine;

    chorus hymenaeal
    or triumphant chaunt
    matched with thine, would be all
    but an empty vaunt
    a thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.

    what object 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?

    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 would 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 my 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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