And now the herald lark
Left his ground-nest, high tow'ring to descry
The morn's approach, and greet read more

And now the herald lark
Left his ground-nest, high tow'ring to descry
The morn's approach, and greet her with his song.

The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build
Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.

The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build
Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.

Oh, stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray,
A hapless lover courts read more

Oh, stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay,
Nor quit for me the trembling spray,
A hapless lover courts thy lay,
Thy soothing, fond complaining.

Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus gins arise,
His steeds to water at read more

Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes.
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise,
Arise, arise!

O happy skylark springing
Up to the broad, blue sky,
Too fearless in thy winging,
read more

O happy skylark springing
Up to the broad, blue sky,
Too fearless in thy winging,
Too gladsome in thy singing,
Thou also soon shalt lie
Where no sweet notes are ringing.

No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings,
Shall, list'ning, in mid-air suspend their wings.

No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings,
Shall, list'ning, in mid-air suspend their wings.

I said to the sky-poised Lark:
"Hark--hark!
Thy note is more loud and free
read more

I said to the sky-poised Lark:
"Hark--hark!
Thy note is more loud and free
Because there lies safe for thee
A little nest on the ground."

Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books read more

Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skilled to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The read more

None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.