To the Birds and the Clouds (from Victor Hugo)

O Birds, sweet children of the air,
    O Clouds, the zenith’s virgin daughters,
By dawn saluted, beings fair,
    Watched by the blue eye of the waters;

Ye the first named by Eve in bliss,
    Ye for whom God, redoubted king,
Greeted light – this vast abyss,
    And liberty – this open wing;

Ye, from the gulf where we have homes,
    Seen in the great mysterious heaven,
Ye, who, admiring not the Romes,
    To ant-hills more esteem have given;

Ye whom, amid its shades, the dew
    Creates or waters with its tears,
Birds out of shadowy nests who floew,
    Clouds risen from roses to your spheres:

O speak ye, whom the day creates
    Far flights illimitably free
Ye the frank ether penetrates
    With glory & serenity;

Ye who behold the mount austere;
    Fresh morn & dusky evening view,
With all the earth & all the more, – 
    Eternal voyages of the blue;

What say they in the night serene
    What think they in the luminous deep,
Of all this human vileness, seen
    Below the immensity to creep?