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The lark now leaves his watery nest,
And climbing, shakes his dewy wings.
He takes your window read more
The lark now leaves his watery nest,
And climbing, shakes his dewy wings.
He takes your window for the East
And to implore your light he sings.
Hail to thee blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
read more
Hail to thee blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
Pourest thy full heart
In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.
Then my dial goes not true; I look this lark for a bunting.
Then my dial goes not true; I look this lark for a bunting.
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books read more
Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books are found,
Thy skilled to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!
No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings,
Shall, list'ning, in mid-air suspend their wings.
No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings,
Shall, list'ning, in mid-air suspend their wings.
The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
Come, darkness, moonrise, everything
read more
The sunrise wakes the lark to sing,
The moonrise wakes the nightingale.
Come, darkness, moonrise, everything
That is so silent, sweet, and pale:
Come, so ye wake the nightingale.
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The read more
None but the lark so shrill and clear;
Now at heaven's gate she claps her wings,
The morn not waking till she sings.
Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of read more
Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long,
And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad,
The nights are wholesome, then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm.
So hallowed and so gracious is that time.
Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus gins arise,
His steeds to water at read more
Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus gins arise,
His steeds to water at those springs
On chaliced flowers that lies;
And winking Mary-buds begin
To ope their golden eyes.
With every thing that pretty is,
My lady sweet, arise,
Arise, arise!