Sunrise Above Broad Wheat-fields
The pale tints of the twilight fields
Have turned into burnished gold,
For waves of yellow light have rolled
From the open'd east across the wealds
While 'mid the wheat spires far behind
Stirs lazily the awaken'd wind.
A skylark high (a song-made bird)
Sings as though God his singing heard.
Have turned into burnished gold,
For waves of yellow light have rolled
From the open'd east across the wealds
While 'mid the wheat spires far behind
Stirs lazily the awaken'd wind.
A skylark high (a song-made bird)
Sings as though God his singing heard.
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