雪莱《给云雀》
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
From the earth thou springest，
And singing still dost soar, and soaring ever singest.
O‘er which clouds are bright’ning，
Like an unbodied joy whose race is just begun.
Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill delight；
Until we hardly see--we feel that it is there.
The moon rains out her beams, and heaven is overflowed.
From rainbow clouds there flow not，
As from thy presence showers a rain of melody.
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not；
With music sweet as love, which overflows her bower；
Among the flowers and grass, which screen it from the view:
Makes faint with too much sweet these heavy-winged thieves.
Joyous， and clear，and fresh，thy music doth surpass.
What sweet thoughts are thine，
That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.
Matched with thine, would be all，
A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want.
What objects are the fountains，
What fields, or waves, or mountains？
What love of thine own kind？what ignorance of pain？
Thou lovest，but ne'er knew love's sad satiety.
Or how could thy notes flow in such a crystal stream？
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
I know not how thy joy we ever should come near.
Thy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground！
The world should listen then, as I am listening now！
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