I never hear a lark its matins sing, But I bethink me of that orphan nest, Where once I saw a little callow thing, Erect, with death-cold wings, above the rest, As tho' he lived and pleaded. Light and shade Swept in and out of his poor open maw, While underneath his silent feet I saw A short-breathed group of helpless orphans laid. The life was ebbing from each infant throat, Too young as yet for music's earliest note; High up a living lark sang loud and free - Keen was the contrast - it was sad to mark Those eyes, heaven-charter'd, now earth-bound and dark: Beneath a morning sky they could not see. |