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. 



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