Poems. Volume 2

THE LARK ASCENDING

He rises and begins to round,He drops the silver chain of sound,Of many links without a break,In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake,All intervolved and spreading wide,Like water-dimples down a tideWhere ripple ripple overcurlsAnd eddy into eddy whirls;A press of hurried notes that runSo fleet they scarce are more than one,Yet changeingly the trills repeatAnd linger ringing while they fleet,Sweet to the quick o’ the ear, and dearTo her beyond the handmaid ear,Who sits beside our inner springs,Too often dry for this he brings,Which seems the very jet of earthAt sight of sun, her music’s mirth,As up he wings the spiral stair,A song of light, and pierces airWith fountain ardour, fountain play,To reach the shining tops of day,And drink in everything discernedAn ecstasy to music turned,Impelled by what his happy billDisperses; drinking, showering still,Unthinking save that he may giveHis voice the outlet, there to liveRenewed in endless notes of glee,So thirsty of his voice is he,For all to hear and all to knowThat he is joy, awake, aglow;The tumult of the heart to hearThrough pureness filtered crystal-clear,And know the pleasure sprinkled brightBy simple singing of delight;Shrill, irreflective, unrestrained,Rapt, ringing, on the jet sustainedWithout a break, without a fall,Sweet-silvery, sheer lyrical,Perennial, quavering up the chord

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