I hear the lark to-day; he sings
Against a hazy April cloud—
The glorious little soul with wings!
Who sings so sweet and clear and loud,
That all the fields that lie around
Seem tingling with melodious sound.
I see him not, nor do I care
To strain with upward view the sight.
Enough for me to know the air
Is full of his intense delight.
I stand, nor do I care to miss
One falling rapture of his bliss.
He sings; the snow is on the hill,
And over hedge and tree is seen,
When Spring has wandered at her will,
A prophecy of misty green,
In which a bud or two displays
A soft desire for summer days.
But he—he knows that thus to pipe
Brings on the summer that shall be,
That all his perfect song is ripe
To wake the grass and touch the tree,
Until the toying day-wind weaves
A web of universal leaves.
All this he knows, and hence his song
Throbs with the joy of what it brings;
And, being hid himself among
The folding of the clouds, he sings
Knowing full well his song will be
The deeper for its mystery.
Thou poet of heaven, for of this earth
We deem thee not: I stand to-day
With all the ripple of thy mirth
Around, and, driving thoughts away,
Hearing thy glorious music fall
In one continuous madrigal.
And as I listen in this mood
I leap to feel thy minstrel strain
Draw the street-fever from the blood,
The city from the weary brain,
Till I am left such boon to bless,
Full of unthinking happiness.