From on High
The lark, lost in the crimson morning air,
roams on through space, and sings down to the town,
that sends a thread of smoke up, here and there.
From up above his distant eye sees clear
the spacious furrows, as they turn to brown,
and the white oxen straying in couples near.
Dark bits of sod, in the field damp and blind,
gleam in the sun like a looking-glass clear:
the husbandman is binding sheaves, in mind,
and has the cuckoo's singing in his ear.
roams on through space, and sings down to the town,
that sends a thread of smoke up, here and there.
From up above his distant eye sees clear
the spacious furrows, as they turn to brown,
and the white oxen straying in couples near.
Dark bits of sod, in the field damp and blind,
gleam in the sun like a looking-glass clear:
the husbandman is binding sheaves, in mind,
and has the cuckoo's singing in his ear.
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