 | A memoir by Hallam Tennyson (1897) |  |
The Lark.
Full light aloft doth the laverock springFrom under the deep, sweet corn,
And chants in the golden wakening
Athwart the bloomy morn.
What aileth thee, O bird divine,
That thou singest with main and with might?
Is thy mad brain drunk with the merry, red wine,
At the very break of light?
It is not good to drink strong wine
Ere the day be well-nigh done;
But thou hast drunk of the merry, sweet wine,
At the rising of the sun.
| A memoir by Hallam Tennyson (1897) | |