LOOK how the lark soars upward and is gone, Turning a spirit as he nears the sky! His voice is heard, but body there is none To fix the vague excursions of the eye. So, poets' songs are with us, tho' they die Obscured, and hid by death's oblivious shroud, And Earth inherits the rich melody Like raining music from the morning cloud. Yet, few there be who pipe so sweet and loud Their voices reach us through the lapse of space: The noisy day is deafen'd by a crowd Of undistinguish'd birds, a twittering race; But only lark and nightingale forlorn Fill up the silences of night and morn. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...BREAKFAST by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON THE SISTERS by JOHN BANISTER TABB BRUCE: HOW AYMER DE VALENCE, AND JOHN OF LORN CHASED THE BRUCE ... by JOHN BARBOUR THE LAY OF THE OLD WOMAN CLOTHED IN GREY; A LEGEND OF DOVER by RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM LISTENING by KATHARINE LEE BATES DESERT BRIDE by MARY MILLER BEARD HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 41 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |