Larks Quotes

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.

Hark, hark, the lark at heaven's gate sings,
And Phoebus gins arise,
His steeds to water at 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!

Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of 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.

It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.

It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.

It was the lark, the herald of the morn;
No nightingale.

It was the lark, the herald of the morn;
No nightingale.

Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high
And more

Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high
And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast
The sun ariseth in his majesty;
Who doth the world so gloriously behold
That cedar tops and hills seem burnished gold.

Better than all measures
Of delightful sound,
Better than all treasures
That in books 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!

Hail to thee blithe Spirit!
Bird thou never wert,
That from Heaven, or near it,
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.

Up springs the lark,
Shrill-voiced, and loud, the messenger of morn;
Ere yet the shadows fly, he more

Up springs the lark,
Shrill-voiced, and loud, the messenger of morn;
Ere yet the shadows fly, he mounted sings
Amid the dawning clouds, and from their haunts
Calls up the tuneful nations.

The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build
Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.

The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build
Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.