The Lark
Whither, oh! sweet lark, whither away,
Soaring so high in the dawning grey?
I see thee not, but I hear thy voice,
Singing aloud, "Rejoice! rejoice!"
As long as the fields and the woods are green,
The breezes soft, and the sky serene,
Happy art thou, O bird of morn,
Greeting the beam o’er the far hills borne.
O! for a wing and a voice like thine,
To revel and sing in the morning shine!
O! for a spirit untorn by care,
A soul unbent by the world’s despair!
Floating aloft on thy russet wing,
Pleasant to thee are the days of spring;
Thou hast no sorrow to make thee moan,
For sorrow is man’s, and man’s alone!
Whither, oh sweet lark, whither away,
Soaring so high in the dawning grey?
I see thee not, but I hear thy voice,
Singing aloud, "Rejoice! rejoice!"