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Oda unei ciocarlii | Ode To a Skylark.de Percy Byshee Shelley- poezie in engleza


Oda unei ciocarlii | Ode To a Skylark. este  o poezie englezeasca minunata, scrisa de Percy Byshee Shelley, unul din cei mai importanti poeti din lume pe care trebuie s-o citeasca si s-o aprecieze toti copiii, nu numai cei ce studiaza limba engleza.

Mary Shelley marturisea ca poetul a fost inspirat in scrierea aceasteia cand se aflau impreuna la Livorno, Italia: "Era o frumoasa seara de vara si in timp ce hoinaream pe aleile ale caror garduri vii era salasuite de licurici am auzit colindul unei ciocarlii." 

Lecturaplacuta!
 
Like a poet hidden,
In the light of thought
Singing songs unbidden
Till the world is wrought
To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not.
 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 brightening,
 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.

 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.

 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?

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!

Ciocarlia si puii ei- fabula de Esop
Cum si-a inmormantat ciocarlia tatal- fabula de Esop

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