The
Lark
And I have
seen,
at
dawn,
the
lark
spin out of the long
grass
and into the pink air
-
its
wings,
which are neither
wide
nor overstrong,
nor overstrong,
fluttering
--
the
pectorals
ploughing and
flashing
for nothing but altitude
--
and the
song
bursting
all the
while
from the red
throat.
And then he
descends,
and is sorry.
His little head hangs
His little head hangs
and he pants for
breath
for a few moments
among the hoops of the grass,
which are crisp and dry,
where most of his living is done --
among the hoops of the grass,
which are crisp and dry,
where most of his living is done --
and then something summons
him again
and up he goes,
and up he goes,
his shoulders
working,
his whole body almost collapsing and floating
his whole body almost collapsing and floating
to the edges of the
world.
We are reconciled, I
think,
to too much.
Better to be a bird, like this one --
Better to be a bird, like this one --
an ornament of the
eternal.
As he came down once, to the
nest of the grass,
“Squander the day, but save
the soul,”
I heard him say.
I heard him say.
~ Mary Oliver
~
(What Do We Know: Poems and
Prose Poems)
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