The lark is ascending But all in vain! Upon the swell of branches, It comes, it goes, it is true;

And once again, a fuller voice Etched round the sky;—the day, is a soft hue; So my love, too far, hath come To speak my thoughts to thee once more;

A soft whisper is the echo Of what I cannot bear to say; Where all is silence, no evocation; So near—the lark—is soaring forth, Through skies as azure, white wings blindly;

• Lord Byron