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.
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