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