To the Skylark
Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!
Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound?
Or, while thy wings aspire, are heart and eye
Both with thy nest on the dewy ground?
Thy nest which thou canst drop into at will,
Those quivering wings composed, that music still!
To the last point of vision, and beyond
Mount, daring warbler!—that love-prompted strain
—Twixt thee and thine a never-failing bond—
Thrills not the less the bosom of the plain:
Yet might’st thou seem, proud privilege! to sing
All independent of the leafy Spring.
Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;
A privacy of glorious light is thine;
When thou dost pour upon the world a flood
Of harmony, with instinct more divine;
Type of the wise who soar but never roam;
True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!
A Little Poetry—If you enjoyed this poem by Wordsworth, you may want to compare it with a similar poem (“Song”) by William Wadsworth Longfellow.
A Fine Picture—Although the lark does not appear in Winslow Homer’s painting, clearly its song has thrilled the “bosom of the plain.”