Iv. The Skylark

There drops our lark into his secret nest! All is felt silence and the broad blue sky; Come, the incessant rain of melody Is over; now earth’s quietudes invest, In cool and shadowy limit, that wild breast Which trembled forth the sudden ecstasy Till raptures came too swift, and song must die Since midmost deeps of heaven grew manifest. My poet of the garden-walk last night Sang in rich leisure, ceased and sang again, Of pleasure in green leaves, of odours given By flowers at dusk, and many a dim delight; The finer joy was thine keen-edged with pain, Soarer! alone with thy own heart and heaven.