You May Also Like / View all maxioms
The music soars within the little lark,
And the lark soars.
The music soars within the little lark,
And the lark soars.
The bird that soars on highest wing,
Builds on the ground her lowly nest;
And she that read more
The bird that soars on highest wing,
Builds on the ground her lowly nest;
And she that doth most sweetly sing,
Sings in the shade when all things rest:
In lark and nightingale we see
What honor hath humility.
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!
The merry lark he soars on high,
No worldly thought o'ertakes him.
He sings aloud to the read more
The merry lark he soars on high,
No worldly thought o'ertakes him.
He sings aloud to the clear blue sky,
And the daylight that awakes him.
Lo, here the gentle lark, weary of rest,
From his moist cabinet mounts up on high
And read 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.
O happy skylark springing
Up to the broad, blue sky,
Too fearless in thy winging,
read more
O happy skylark springing
Up to the broad, blue sky,
Too fearless in thy winging,
Too gladsome in thy singing,
Thou also soon shalt lie
Where no sweet notes are ringing.
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 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.
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.
