To The Lark

Bird of the morn,      When roseate clouds begin      To show the opening dawn      Thou gladly sing'st it in,      And o'er the sweet green fields and happy vales      Thy pleasant song is heard, mixed with the morning gales.      Bird of the morn,      What time the ruddy sun      Smiles on the pleasant corn      Thy singing is begun,      Heartfelt and cheering over labourers' toil,      Who chop in coppice wild and delve the russet soil.      Bird of the sun,      How dear to man art thou!      When morning has begun      To gild the mountain's brow,      How beautiful it is to see thee soar so blest,      Winnowing thy russet wings above thy twitchy nest.      Bird of the Summer's day,      How oft I stand to hear      Thee sing thy airy lay,      With music wild and clear,      Till thou becom'st a speck upon the sky,      Small as the clods that crumble where I lie.      Thou bird of happiest song,      The Spring and Summer too      Are thine, the months along,      The woods and vales to view.      If climes were evergreen thy song would be      The sunny music of eternal glee.