The meadowlark sings—to me—
I name the music nice—
A joy forever present—
And it has no advice—

And often comes at waking
As the Moon comes down to Rye—
His silliest song is cheerful—
As the morning breaks the Sky—

The sprigs are white and green
And the Meadows are for Miles—
A heady sight of singing—
Is the careless heart that smiles—

• Emily Dickinson