作品原文

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 daylight，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.

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 chaunt，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？