THE CLOUD. I. I bring fresh showers for the thirsting flowers I bear light shade for the leaves when laid From my wings are shaken the dews that waken When rocked to rest on their Mother's breast, As she dances about the sun. I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And whiten the green plains under; And then again I dissolve it in rain, And laugh as I pass in thunder. II. I sift the snow on the mountains below, While I sleep in the arms of the Blast. In a cavern under is fettered the Thunder, Over earth and ocean with gentle motion Lured by the love of the Genii that move Over the rills and the crags and the hills, Wherever he dream under mountain or stream And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, Whilst he is dissolving in rains. III. The sanguine Sunrise, with his meteor eyes, When the morning star shines dead: As on the jag of a mountain-crag Which an earthquake rocks and swings An eagle alit one moment may sit In the light of its golden wings. And, when Sunset may breathe, from the lit sea beneath, Its ardour of rest and of love, And the crimson pall of eve may fall From the depth of heaven above, With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest, As still as a brooding dove. IV. That orbed maiden with white fire laden Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor And wherever the beat of her unseen feet, May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof, And I laugh to see them whirl and flee Like a swarm of golden bees, When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,- Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high, V. I bind the Sun's throne with a burning zone, The volcanoes are dim, and the Stars reel and swim, From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape, Over a torrent sea, Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof; The mountains its columns be. The triumphal arch through which I march, With hurricane, fire, and snow, When the Powers of the air are chained to my chair, The Sphere-fire above its soft colours wove, VI. I am the daughter of Earth and Water, And the nursling of the Sky: I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die. For after the rain, when with never a stain The pavilion of heaven is bare, And the winds and sunbeams with their convex gleams Build up the blue dome of air, I silently laugh at my own cenotaph, And out of the caverns of rain, Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb, I arise, and unbuild it again. TO A SKYLARK. I. Hail to thee, blithe spirit Bird thou never wert- In profuse strains of unpremeditated art. II. Higher still and higher From the earth thou springest, Like a cloud of fire; The blue deep thou wingest, (1820.) And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest. III. 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. IV. 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— V. Keen as are the arrows Of that silver sphere In the white dawn clear, Until we hardly see, we feel, that it is there. VI. 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. VII. 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 : VIII. Like a poet hidden In the light of thought, Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not: IX. Like a high-born maiden In a palace tower, Soul in secret hour With music sweet as love which overflows her bower: X. Like a glow-worm golden In a dell of dew, Scattering unbeholden Its aërial hue Among the flowers and grass which screen it from the view: XI. Like a rose embowered In its own green leaves, Till the scent it gives Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves. XII. Sound of vernal showers On the twinkling grass, All that ever was, Joyous and clear and fresh,-thy music doth surpass. XIII. 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. XIV. 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. |