The Meadow Lark

I HEARD a Lark in the meadow sing:
“Life soon passes!”
He called from his throne of grasses,
“Life is vanishing, vanishing!”

I saw him, jubilant, afar —
Wind-swept rover —
Perched in my field of clover.
Insistent he as prophets are.

Such sky, such scent, such plains of air!
Such waters flowing!
Yet: “Life is going, going!”
He sang and sang, ecstatic, there.

“O Bird,” I cried, “what hope is thine,
What longed to-morrow,
That thou shouldst such contentment borrow,
Nor for thy little day repine?”

I watched him and I pondered long.
On my ear beating,
Came to me dominant, entreating,
That liquid affluence of song.

What hope, what rapture in that strain!
Like flaming fire
My soul swept up and could not tire,
Borne on those gusts of bliss and pain.

I mounted, at heaven’s gate to cling.
“Life soon passes!”
O joy! O voice from the grasses!
Life is vanishing, vanishing!