A patch of sunrise streaked with mist,
True child of morn;
A sweet, spring day the meadow kissed,
And thou wast born.
A while we watch thy movement shy,
Without a nest;
Dost make the rafters of the sky
By night thy rest?
Did some one stumble in his lore
Of dates unknown,
That thou art here so long before
The grass is grown?
There is no insect on the wing,
The ground is bare;
Yet thou, methinks to hear thee sing,
With queens dost fare.
Not till the grass begins to wave
Art thou thy best;
When such thy sunny ways, I crave
Thy yellow breast.
Then with the dew upon thy throat,
Thy notes impearled;
Thou droppest them afar, afloat,
Down on the world.
A secret doth to thee belong,
Canst make reply?
Thy home is on the ground, and song
Is in the sky.
Thus to my earnest questioning,
The meadow-lark
This tonic note to me did fling.
How like a spark!
The high-winged spirits care-free are.
Of lowly heart;
Their every thought, thus fledged a star,
A gem of art.
