The Lark

And I have seen, at dawn, the lark spin out of the long grass and into the pink air -- its wings, which are neither wide nor overstrong, fluttering -- the pectorals ploughing and flashing for nothing but altitude -- and the song bursting all the while from the red throat. And then he descends, and is sorry. His little head hangs and he pants for breath for a few moments among the hoops of the grass, which are crisp and dry, where most of his living is done -- and then something summons him again and up he goes, his shoulders working, his whole body almost collapsing and floating to the edges of the world. We are reconciled, I think, to too much. Better to be a bird, like this one -- an ornament of the eternal. As he came down once, to the nest of the grass, “Squander the day, but save the soul,” I heard him say.