6
LARKS
What voice of gladness, hark!
In heaven is ringing?
From the sad fields the lark
Is upward winging.
High through the mournful mist that blots our day
Their songs betray them soaring in the grey.
See them! Nay, they
In sunlight swim; above the furthest stain
Of cloud attain; their hearts in music rain
Upon the plain.
Sweet birds, far out of sight
Your songs of pleasure
Dome us with joy as bright
As heaven’s best azure.