Quotes about lark, page 3
The Four Seasons : Spring
Come, gentle Spring! ethereal Mildness! come,
And from the bosom of yon dropping cloud,
While music wakes around, veil'd in a shower
Of shadowing roses, on our plains descend.
O Hertford, fitted or to shine in courts
With unaffected grace, or walk the plain
With innocence and meditation join'd
In soft assemblage, listen to my song,
Which thy own Season paints; when Nature all
Is blooming and benevolent, like thee.
And see where surly Winter passes off,
Far to the north, and calls his ruffian blasts:
His blasts obey, and quit the howling hill,
The shatter'd forest, and the ravaged vale;
While softer gales succeed, at whose kind touch,
Dissolving snows in livid torrents lost,
The mountains lift their green heads to the sky.
As yet the trembling year is unconfirm'd,
And Winter oft at eve resumes the breeze,
Chills the pale morn, and bids his driving sleets
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poem by James Thomson
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A Lark
A Lark
Better have a crow
To caw
Every now and then
Than a lark
With a sweet melody
A well-writ couplet
May do you harm
But handbilling
Has its own charm.
(Karnailsingh Heranwale)
poem by Karnail Singh Heirwale
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The Summer Nights Are Short
The summer nights are short
Where northern days are long:
For hours and hours lark after lark
Trills out his song.
The summer days are short
Where southern nights are long:
Yet short the night when nightingales
Trill out their song.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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A Lament
The merry merry lark was up and singing,
And the hare was out and feeding on the lea;
And the merry merry bells below were ringing,
When my child's laugh rang through me.
Now the hare is snared and dead beside the snow-yard,
And the lark beside the dreary winter sea;
And the baby in his cradle in the churchyard
Sleeps sound till the bell brings me.
Eversley, 1848.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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Warning Of The Lark
High in the treetops, silent as ever,
Sits the foreboding Lark.
Its cries foretell danger, its wings flapping in an arc.
Its cries are heard everywhere, but not everyone hears its cries.
A cry so soft and gentle
Heard only by the humble and wise.
Study this quest you are about to receive, and with courage you will embark.
So my brothers, hear this plea, and heed to the warning of the Lark.
poem by Preston Simmons
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The Daisies
IN THE scented bud of the morning—O,
When the windy grass went rippling far,
I saw my dear one walking slow,
In the field where the daisies are.
We did not laugh and we did not speak
As we wandered happily to and fro;
I kissed my dear on either cheek,
In the bud of the morning—O.
A lark sang up from the breezy land,
A lark sang down from a cloud afar,
And she and I went hand in hand
In the field where the daisies are.
poem by James Stephens
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A Farewell: To C.E.G
My fairest child, I have no song to give you;
No lark could pipe in skies so dull and gray;
Yet, if you will, one quiet hint I'll leave you,
For every day.
I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol
Than lark who hails the dawn or breezy down;
To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel
Than Shakespeare's crown.
Be good, sweet maid, and let who can be clever;
Do lovely things, not dream them, all day long;
And so make Life, and Death, and that For Ever,
One grand sweet song.
poem by Charles Kingsley
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His Footstep
To Lady Wemyss
The boy will come no more
Although I listen and long;
The sound of his foot on the floor
Was like an old song.
His foot had the music in it,
And now the music's dumb --
Like the song of the lark or linnet
Glad that Spring's come.
There's nothing stirring at all, --
'Tis quiet all by yourself, --
But a wee mouse in the wall,
The clock ticks on the shelf.
Like the song of the lark or linnet,
That's singing early and soon,
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poem by Katharine Tynan
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Chaucer
An old man in a lodge within a park;
The chamber walls depicted all around
With portraitures of huntsman, hawk, and hound,
And the hurt deer. He listeneth to the lark,
Whose song comes with the sunshine through the dark
Of painted glass in leaden lattice bound;
He listeneth and he laugheth at the sound,
Then writeth in a book like any clerk.
He is the poet of the dawn, who wrote
The Canterbury Tales, and his old age
Made beautiful with song; and as I read
I hear the crowing cock, I hear the note
Of lark and linnet, and from every page
Rise odors of ploughed field or flowery mead.
poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Spring Song
A BLUE-BELL springs upon the ledge,
A lark sits singing in the hedge;
Sweet perfumes scent the balmy air,
And life is brimming everywhere.
What lark and breeze and bluebird sing,
Is Spring, Spring, Spring!
No more the air is sharp and cold;
The planter wends across the wold,
And, glad, beneath the shining sky
We wander forth, my love and I.
And ever in our hearts doth ring
This song of Spring, Spring!
For life is life and love is love,
'Twixt maid and man or dove and dove.
Life may be short, life may be long,
But love will come, and to its song
Shall this refrain for ever cling
Of Spring, Spring, Spring!
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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