THE FIELD-LARK

TO A.E.D.

Ah, though doubtless you aver
Other songs are lovelier,—

None casts such a spell o’er me
As the field-lark’s sorcery.

It recaptures one swift year

When the Golden Age drew near,—

Summer by the Sconset shore
With the ocean at the door.

The warm smell of bayberry
And sweet fern comes back to me,

And the floor of blue and gold
From the cliff’s foot is unrolled.

I can feel the soft wind blow,
Breath of grasses whispering low,

Where in peace the lone moors lie

And the field-larks nest and cry.

Like a boatswain piping clear
Silver magic to the ear,

Down the wind comes eerily
That wild music by the sea.

Well I know that sliding call
With its haunting slur and fall,

When the air is filled with sound
From a nest upon the ground.…

Many a morning in the hills

My enchanted spirit thrills

At a whistle from the grass
Of a sudden as I pass.

Then am I borne far away.…
It is morning on a day

Where the Path to Sankoty
Climbs the moors above the sea,

And the breakers boom and sigh
To the moor-lark’s shrilling cry.