The Skylark
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bove the russet clods the corn is seenSprouting its spiry points of tender green,Where squats the hare, to terrors wide awake,Like some brown clod the harrows failed to break.Opening their golden caskets to the sun,The buttercups make schoolboys eager run,To see who shall be first to pluck the prize--Up from their hurry see the Skylark flies,And oer her half-formed nest, with happy wings,Winnows the air till in the cloud she sings,Then hangs a dust spot in the sunny skies,And drops and drops till in her nest she lies,Which they unheeded passed--not dreaming thenThat birds, which flew so high, would drop againTo nests upon the ground, which anythingMay come at to destroy. Had they the wingLike such a bird, themselves would be too proudAnd build on nothing but a passing cloud!As free from danger as the heavens are freeFrom pain and toil, there would they build and be,And sail about the world to scenes unheardOf and unseen,--O were they but a bird!So think they, while they listen to its song,And smile and fancy and so pass along;While its low nest, moist with the dews of morn,Lies safely, with the leveret, in the corn.
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