What thou art we know not – “To a Skylark” by Percy Bysshe Shelley

What for a bird, I cannot be sure,
though to this I can attest:
you caroled and crooned in the summer rain
while away did hide the rest.

I ask you, sweet, how can it be,
that unlike drops of rain,
despite your somewhat greater weight,
you do not fall in vain.

And there, that bite of bright blue sky,
is that for which you wait?
Or do you seek yourself instead
a darling little mate?

Sing low for me, if you do please
or hum a bit instead;
serenade with all your zest
while I lie in my bed.