TO A SKY-LARK. 



Ethereal minstrel ! pilgrim of the sky ! 

 Dost thou despise the earth where cares abound ? 

 Or, while the wings aspire, are heart and eye 

 Both with thy nest upon the dewy ground ? — 

 Thy nest, which thou canst drop into at will, 

 Those quivering wings composed, that music still. 



Leave to the nightingale her shady wood : 



A privacy of glorious light is thine ; 



Whence 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. 



Wordsworth. 



