In the broad daylight,

On the

Thou art unseen, but yet I hear thy shrill Wing

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

That panted forth a flood of rapture so divine.

Chorus hymeneal

Or triumphal chant,

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?

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

On the
Wing

On the

With some pain is fraught;

Wing 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.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.

Sir Lark and King Sun: A Parable
"Good morrow, my lord!" in the sky alone,
Sang the lark as the sun ascended his throne.
"Shine on me, my lord; I only am come,

Of all your servants, to welcome you home.
I have flown right up, a whole hour, I swear,
To catch the first shine of your golden hair."

“Must I thank you then," said the king, “Sir
Lark,

For flying so high and hating the dark?

You ask a full cup for half a thirst:

Half was love of me, and half love to be first.
There's many a bird makes no such haste,
But waits till I come: that's as much to my taste."

And King Sun hid his head in a turban of cloud,
And Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed and
cowed;

But he flew up higher, and thought, "Anon
The wrath of the king will be over and gone;
And his crown, shining out of its cloudy fold,
Will change my brown feathers to a glory of
gold."

So he flew with the strength of a lark he flew;
But, as he rose, the cloud rose too;

And not one gleam of the golden hair

Came through the depths of the misty air;

On the Wing