The Field-lark

Ah, though doubtless you aver Other songs are lovelier,—

None casts such a spell o'er me As the field-lark's sorcery.

It recaptures one swift year When the Golden Age drew near,—

Summer by the Sconset shore With the ocean at the door.

The warm smell of bayberry And sweet fern comes back to me,

And the floor of blue and gold From the cliff's foot is unrolled.

I can feel the soft wind blow, Breath of grasses whispering low,

Where in peace the lone moors lie And the field-larks nest and cry.

Like a boatswain piping clear Silver magic to the ear,

Down the wind comes eerily That wild music by the sea.

Well I know that sliding call With its haunting slur and fall,

When the air is filled with sound From a nest upon the ground...

Many a morning in the hills My enchanted spirit thrills

At a whistle from the grass Of a sudden as I pass.

Then am I borne far away.... It is morning on a day

Where the Path to Sankoty Climbs the moors above the sea,

And the breakers boom and sigh To the moor-lark's shrilling cry.