The Song of the Lark
On the whispering hills of my heart she sings, The lark—her song a silver arch, Pulsing with the day’s soft beginnings, And weaving through the world’s sweet march.
Through crowded boughs, where the softest dew lies, With each note like a pearl of spring, She flutters high, like hope which climbs the skies,
Delivering words that the heart must bring. —Sidney Lanier
- Sidney Lanier