Though the lark that upward flies
Recks not of the opening skies,
Nor discerneth grey from blue,
Nor the rain-drop from the dew:
Yet the tune which no man taught
So can quicken human thought,
That the startled fancies spring
Faster far than voice or wing.
And the songstress as she floats
Rising on her buoyant notes,
Though she may the while refuse
Homage to the nobler Muse,
Though she cannot truly tell
How her voice hath wrought the spell,
Fills the listener's eyes with tears,
Lifts him to the inner spheres.
Lark, thy morning song is done;
Overhead the silent sun
Bids thee pause. But he that heard
Such a strain must bless the bird.
Lady, thou hast hushed too soon
Sounds that cheered my weary noon;
Let met, warned by marriage bell,
Whisper, Queen of Song, farewell.