One of Percy Bysshe Shelley's most famous poems, "To a Skylark" describes the powerful grace and beauty of the skylark's song. Shelley wrote "To a Skylark" in 1820 after hearing the bird's distinctive calls while walking through the port city of Livorno, Italy. The poem's speaker addresses the bird directly and praises the purity of its music, later contrasting it with sad, hollow human communication. As an ode to the unmatched splendors of the natural world, and especially its spiritual power, "To a Skylark" remains a quintessential example of Romantic poetry. The poem's unconventional form features a song-like rhyme scheme and bouncy rhythm that subtly mimics the skylark's calls.
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1Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
2Bird thou never wert,
3That from Heaven, or near it,
4Pourest thy full heart
5In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
6Higher still and higher
7From the earth thou springest
8Like a cloud of fire;
9The blue deep thou wingest,
10And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
11In the golden lightning
12Of the sunken sun,
13O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
14Thou dost float and run;
15Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
16The pale purple even
17Melts around thy flight;
18Like a star of Heaven,
19In the broad day-light
20Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,
21Keen as are the arrows
22Of that silver sphere,
23Whose intense lamp narrows
24In the white dawn clear
25Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
26All the earth and air
27With thy voice is loud,
28As, when night is bare,
29From one lonely cloud
30The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflow'd.
31What thou art we know not;
32What is most like thee?
33From rainbow clouds there flow not
34Drops so bright to see
35As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
36Like a Poet hidden
37In the light of thought,
38Singing hymns unbidden,
39Till the world is wrought
40To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
41Like a high-born maiden
42In a palace-tower,
43Soothing her love-laden
44Soul in secret hour
45With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
46Like a glow-worm golden
47In a dell of dew,
48Scattering unbeholden
49Its aëreal hue
50Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
51Like a rose embower'd
52In its own green leaves,
53By warm winds deflower'd,
54Till the scent it gives
55Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves:
56Sound of vernal showers
57On the twinkling grass,
58Rain-awaken'd flowers,
59All that ever was
60Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
61Teach us, Sprite or Bird,
62What sweet thoughts are thine:
63I have never heard
64Praise of love or wine
65That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
66Chorus Hymeneal,
67Or triumphal chant,
68Match'd with thine would be all
69But an empty vaunt,
70A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
71What objects are the fountains
72Of thy happy strain?
73What fields, or waves, or mountains?
74What shapes of sky or plain?
75What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
76With thy clear keen joyance
77Languor cannot be:
78Shadow of annoyance
79Never came near thee:
80Thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
81Waking or asleep,
82Thou of death must deem
83Things more true and deep
84Than we mortals dream,
85Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
86We look before and after,
87And pine for what is not:
88Our sincerest laughter
89With some pain is fraught;
90Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
91Yet if we could scorn
92Hate, and pride, and fear;
93If we were things born
94Not to shed a tear,
95I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
96Better than all measures
97Of delightful sound,
98Better than all treasures
99That in books are found,
100Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
101Teach me half the gladness
102That thy brain must know,
103Such harmonious madness
104From my lips would flow
105The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
1Hail to thee, blithe Spirit!
2Bird thou never wert,
3That from Heaven, or near it,
4Pourest thy full heart
5In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
6Higher still and higher
7From the earth thou springest
8Like a cloud of fire;
9The blue deep thou wingest,
10And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
11In the golden lightning
12Of the sunken sun,
13O'er which clouds are bright'ning,
14Thou dost float and run;
15Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
16The pale purple even
17Melts around thy flight;
18Like a star of Heaven,
19In the broad day-light
20Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight,
21Keen as are the arrows
22Of that silver sphere,
23Whose intense lamp narrows
24In the white dawn clear
25Until we hardly see, we feel that it is there.
26All the earth and air
27With thy voice is loud,
28As, when night is bare,
29From one lonely cloud
30The moon rains out her beams, and Heaven is overflow'd.
31What thou art we know not;
32What is most like thee?
33From rainbow clouds there flow not
34Drops so bright to see
35As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
36Like a Poet hidden
37In the light of thought,
38Singing hymns unbidden,
39Till the world is wrought
40To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not:
41Like a high-born maiden
42In a palace-tower,
43Soothing her love-laden
44Soul in secret hour
45With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower:
46Like a glow-worm golden
47In a dell of dew,
48Scattering unbeholden
49Its aëreal hue
50Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
51Like a rose embower'd
52In its own green leaves,
53By warm winds deflower'd,
54Till the scent it gives
55Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves:
56Sound of vernal showers
57On the twinkling grass,
58Rain-awaken'd flowers,
59All that ever was
60Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.
61Teach us, Sprite or Bird,
62What sweet thoughts are thine:
63I have never heard
64Praise of love or wine
65That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
66Chorus Hymeneal,
67Or triumphal chant,
68Match'd with thine would be all
69But an empty vaunt,
70A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
71What objects are the fountains
72Of thy happy strain?
73What fields, or waves, or mountains?
74What shapes of sky or plain?
75What love of thine own kind? what ignorance of pain?
76With thy clear keen joyance
77Languor cannot be:
78Shadow of annoyance
79Never came near thee:
80Thou lovest: but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
81Waking or asleep,
82Thou of death must deem
83Things more true and deep
84Than we mortals dream,
85Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream?
86We look before and after,
87And pine for what is not:
88Our sincerest laughter
89With some pain is fraught;
90Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
91Yet if we could scorn
92Hate, and pride, and fear;
93If we were things born
94Not to shed a tear,
95I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
96Better than all measures
97Of delightful sound,
98Better than all treasures
99That in books are found,
100Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
101Teach me half the gladness
102That thy brain must know,
103Such harmonious madness
104From my lips would flow
105The world should listen then, as I am listening now.
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 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 overflow'd.
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 aëreal hue
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
Like a rose embower'd
In its own green leaves,
By warm winds deflower'd,
Till the scent it gives
Makes faint with too much sweet those heavy-winged thieves:
Sound of vernal showers
On the twinkling grass,
Rain-awaken'd 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 chant,
Match'd 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?
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 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.
Select any word below to get its definition in the context of the poem. The words are listed in the order in which they appear in the poem.
The Poem Aloud — Listen to a live reading of Shelley's "To a Skylark."
Biography of the Poet — Take a deep dive into Shelley's life and works, courtesy of the Poetry Foundation.
An Introduction to British Romanticism — Learn more about the Romanticism, including its historical context, themes, and key contributors.
What's So Special About a Skylark? — Browse a summary of the skylark's defining features—such as its habitat, behavior, and conservation status—alongside images of the bird.
The Skylark's "Shrill Delight" — Listen to recording of a skylark's calls, layered over video footage of skylarks in their natural habitats.
Primary Sources — Take a look at original documents related to the poem, including an early printing, from the collection of the British Library.