 | English Roses |  |
THE SKYLARK.
Heaven is thy home, and thou a passing guest
Who leaves a pilgrim song and lightly holds
All melodies of Time within his breast,
And feels the passion which his heart enfolds.
For thou, returning to thy native sky,
Dost carry with thee our humanity
Tuned to the rapture of a deeper rest,
Which none but he who rises thus beholds.
The dew of Nature and the bloom of things
Fall from the shining of thy shaken wings,
And some may catch mid earthlier revelry
Great gleams of awful overshadowings.
Who leaves a pilgrim song and lightly holds
All melodies of Time within his breast,
And feels the passion which his heart enfolds.
For thou, returning to thy native sky,
Dost carry with thee our humanity
Tuned to the rapture of a deeper rest,
Which none but he who rises thus beholds.
The dew of Nature and the bloom of things
Fall from the shining of thy shaken wings,
And some may catch mid earthlier revelry
Great gleams of awful overshadowings.
Earth is thy cage, like disimprisoned flame
Thou soarest upward to the kindred fires,
And worlds' wide passion trembles in that flame
Which mirrors man and infinite desires;
The future poem, to be said or sung,
Makes music in that universal tongue
In notes unborn that still shall have a name,
And tells each heart to what its hope aspires.
Thou art the distant morning's pearly gleam,
The secret message of the murmuring stream,
The call of bells that never yet were rung,
And the white soul which throbs through every dream.
Thou soarest upward to the kindred fires,
And worlds' wide passion trembles in that flame
Which mirrors man and infinite desires;
The future poem, to be said or sung,
Makes music in that universal tongue
In notes unborn that still shall have a name,
And tells each heart to what its hope aspires.
Thou art the distant morning's pearly gleam,
The secret message of the murmuring stream,
The call of bells that never yet were rung,
And the white soul which throbs through every dream.
| English Roses | |