“HARK, HARK, THE LARK!”

A little lyric, as clear as water, Sweeter voiced than the river daughter, Or Dryope’s moan, Rang from the heart of the truest singer, And straight the sound was the magic bringer Of joys unknown.

For night had fallen and day had risen, And, breaking through his eastern prison, The glad sun shone; And all was fragrant and sweet with morning, And to the sky, the sad earth scorning, The lark had flown.

And, faintly heard from the coast of heaven, The song of the glad strong seraphs seven Was earthward blown, And echoed, with a strange completeness, (As a small bloom treasures infinite sweetness), In the lyric’s tone.

And the marvelous freedom of the dawning Breathed large through the gates of life, Wide yawning, Far open thrown; And the trembling thrill of incarnation Awoke the earth to the new creation Of Beauty’s own. —Edward O. Jackson.