Poems (Hardy)/With the field-lark

by Irenè Hardy

WITH THE FIELD-LARK

HEARKEN,Dear lark,And tell me true,I have reasons for singing,But what have you?

"O the prospect blue,The ground and the grass,And freedom to roam there,And a dear little home there,When the night-winds come to pass.What better, dear mortal, have you?"

Ah, birdOf the relevant word,What thou hast, and I think I own,Let us not measure together.The same sky and the same weatherFall to my share of the world;And all that is or shall be sownOf field-flower or wood-flower or vine,All that's furledIn seed of oak or pine,Are as much yours as mine,Are as much mine as yours;Only, there are scores and scoresOf closed or open doors:Many I enter thou canst not see,And thy palaces are not for me;But comrade to my thought thou artIn the blessedest part,The joy of living, and faith In what the book of Nature saith—That life will all seem goodWhen the worst is forgotAnd the best understood;When we see that the blotOn the page is only oneGreat shadow of self in the sun.

The preaching is done,Little chorister; one little hymn,Now, ere I go through field-paths dim,Benedicite, the good night falls,Benedicite, thy mate calls,Benedicite.