  Blithe is the lark when first the morning breaks, And from his nest up-circling through the air He leaves below a world of shadowy care, And off his wings the dew of darkness shakes; For those high lakes of blue he gladly makes, With song that overfloweth everywhere Like the sweet grace that falleth after prayer To one who from sin’s sleep at last awakes. Poets have sung thy praises;—but thy song Is far above all sound of poet’s voice, Though listening to thy notes he may rejoice, And wonder if some raptured angel-throng Pause in their service as thou soarest near, And to thy music lend entrancÈd ear. |
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