14 BIRDS AND POETS 
torians, only you must know how to read them. 
They translate the facts largely and freely. A cele- 
brated lady once said to Turner, “I confess I can- 
not see in nature what you do.” ‘‘Ah, madam,” 
said the complacent artist, ‘don’t you wish you 
could!” 
Shelley’s poem is perhaps better known, and has 
a higher reputation among literary folk, than Words- 
worth’s; it is more lyrical and lark-like; but it is 
needlessly long, though no longer than the lark’s 
song itself, but the lark can’t help it, and Shelley 
can. I quote only a few stanzas: — 
“Tn 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.” 
Wordsworth has written two poems upon the 
lark, in one of which he calls the bird “ pilgrim of 
