The lark

Swift through the yielding air I glide,

while night's sable shades abide:

Yet in my flight (though ne're so fast)

I tune and time the wild winds blast:

And ere the sun be come about,

teach the young lark his lesson out;

Who early as the day is born

sings his shrill anthem to the rising morn:

Let never mortal lose the pains

to imitate my aiery strains,

Whose pitch too high for human ears,

was set me by the tuneful spheres.

I carol to the fairies' King,

wakes him a-morning when I sing:

And when the sun stoops to the deep,

rock him again and his fair Queen asleep.