Poems

ld grove, where still a note may linger Of Herrick's flute, Of Sidney's lute, Or of some precious rondel voiced by a forgotten singer. Hark! Even now I hear a lark, The lark of England's ripe and mellow story, The lark of England's fallow fields of glory, Springing, Singing, Far and high in heaven's remotest blue, His wings still cool with dew, His voice (of which one song-god fair and young A lyric of immortal fervor sung) Still firm and true, Still rich with exultation, rising higher, And brimming with desire, To fill ethereal vastness with its fire ; Forgetting love and sympathy and that law Of human harmony And rhythmic destiny, Which darkly through a glass the seers and prophets saw! O bird, Whom gods and heroes heard Sing in the far dim twilight hours of Time, Whose rapture stirred Through many a new sweet rhyme Whilst thou didst rise Into the skies To purify thy song in empyrean fire ! Say where In upper air Dost hope to find fulfillment of thy dream ? On what far peak seest thou a morning-gleam ? Why shall the stars still blind thee unaware ? Why needst thou mount to sing ? Why seek the sun's fierce-tempered glow and glare ? Why shall a soulless impulse prompt thy wing ? Why are thy meadows and thy groves bereft Of Freedom's inspiration, and so left To silence in mid-spring ? 0 lark ! 1 mark, Since Shelley died, thy wings have somewhat failed. A precious note has faded fro...