To A Lark O thou that singest like a bird
And art the sign of winter’s end,
All hearts should own, yet few can hear
Thy songs that strengthen heart and hand.

Up in the sky all day
Thou’lt fly and call
Where high above the tangle
Of ruffled trees and open hall

Thou’’lt mark the mirth’s high way.

In springtime yet again,
True song where natural joys are seen;
A while these words be sung:
Where beauty’s balm is ever green..

• John Clare