The Lark Ascending He rises and the wild winds dim, And sing—what’s left of me? The sky blushes bright, and claiming freedom, The lark turns poet free.

And away I go with wings and sighs, With sunshine overhead; In fragile spaces, through dusky skies, And dreams bright as the dead.

From silver dawn to violet night, When hearts are comatose; And every thing of time takes flight, It sings the songs that close.

As far as mortal earth can stretch, The lark, so bright, will go, Though time upon my heart will etch, I only wish to know.

So rising sun and falling grey With wings that touch all wings, Glimmers like the air’s sweet play, Bright joy the lark brings.

• Alfred Lord Tennyson