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.

76. To a Skylark.

        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 brightning,
          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 overflowed.

        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 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 these heavy-winged 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: