 | Rudyard Kipling's Verse |  |
[The lark will make her hymn to God]
The lark will make her hymn to God,
The partridge call her brood,
While I forget the heath I trod,
The fields wherein I stood.
The partridge call her brood,
While I forget the heath I trod,
The fields wherein I stood.
'Tis dule to know not night from morn,
But greater dule to know
I can but hear the hunter's horn
That once I used to blow.
But greater dule to know
I can but hear the hunter's horn
That once I used to blow.
| Rudyard Kipling's Verse | |