The rolls and harrows lie at rest beside <br />The battered road; and spreading far and wide <br />Above the russet clods, the corn is seen <br />Sprouting its spiry points of tender green, <br />Where squats the hare, to terrors wide awake, <br />Like some brown clod the harrows failed to break. <br />Opening their golden caskets to the sun, <br />The buttercups make schoolboys eager run, <br />To see who shall be first to pluck the prize - <br />Up from their hurry, see, the skylark flies, <br />And o'er her half-formed nest, with happy wings <br />Winnows the air, till in the cloud she sings, <br />Then hangs a dust-spot in the sunny skies, <br />And drops, and drops, till in her nest she lies, <br />Which they unheeded passed - not dreaming then <br />That birds which flew so high would drop agen <br />To nests upon the ground, which anything <br />May come at to destroy. Had they the wing <br />Like such a bird, themselves would be too proud, <br />And build on nothing but a passing cloud! <br />As free from danger as the heavens are free <br />From pain and toil, there would they build and be, <br />And sail about the world to scenes unheard <br />Of and unseen - Oh, were they but a bird! <br />So think they, while they listen to its song, <br />And smile and fancy and so pass along; <br />While its low nest, moist with the dews of morn, <br />Lies safely, with the leveret, in the corn.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-skylark/
