  "Good-night, Sir Rook!" said a little lark, "The daylight fades; it will soon be dark; I've bathed my wings in the sun's last ray; I've sung my hymn to the parting day; So now I haste to my quiet nook In yon dewy meadow—good-night, Sir Rook!" "Good-night, poor Lark," said his titled friend With a haughty toss and a distant bend; "I also go to my rest profound, But not to sleep on the cold, damp ground. The fittest place for a bird like me Is the topmost bough of yon tall pine tree. "I opened my eyes at peep of day And saw you taking your upward way, Dreaming your fond romantic dreams, An ugly speck in the sun's bright beams, Soaring too high to be seen or heard; And I said to myself: 'What a foolish bird!' "I trod the park with a princely air; I filled my crop with the richest fare; I cawed all day 'mid a lordly crew, And I made more noise in the world than you! The sun shone forth on my ebon wing; I looked and wondered—good-night, poor thing!" "Good-night, once more," said the lark's sweet voice, "I see no cause to repent my choice; You build your nest in the lofty pine, But is your slumber more sweet than mine? You make more noise in the world than I, But whose is the sweeter minstrelsy?" Unknown What stronger breast-plate than a heart untainted? Thrice is he armed, that hath his quarrel just; And he but naked, though locked up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. Shakespeare |
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