The lark pours forth his song upon the air,
Flute-clear and cool in rippling rhapsody,
Surpassing not the robin's symphony,
Nor drowning out the phoebe's gentle flare.
His notes come not at duty's urge or praise,
But to express the lilting ecstasy
Not to be stilled within his breast, does he
Release a splashing fount of jeweled blaze.
So there are souls who feel the touch of wings
And hear the silent singing of the stars,
The music of the Master Poet's art;
Who see the glory in all living things,
And often walk the realm of avatars
Who sing their lyrics from a brimming heart.
