The Skylark

The rolls and harrows lie at rest beside
   The battered road; and spreading far and wide
   Above the russet clods, the corn is seen
   Sprouting 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 o'er 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 then
  That birds which flew so high would drop agen
  To nests upon the ground, which anything
  May come at to destroy. Had they the wing
  Like such a bird, themselves would be too proud,
  And build on nothing but a passing cloud!
  As free from danger as the heavens are free
  From pain and toil, there would they build and be,
  And sail about the world to scenes unheard
  Of and unseen—Oh, 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.