Poems (Hoffman)/The Broken Wing
THE BROKEN WING
He was bound in a sheaf of golden wheat,
The baby lark, and a broken wing
Hung limp at his side, and in pitying grief
I clasped to my bosom the fluttering thing
The baby lark, with the broken wing.
The baby lark, and a broken wing
Hung limp at his side, and in pitying grief
I clasped to my bosom the fluttering thing
The baby lark, with the broken wing.
Now garnered in, is the golden wheat,
And lost in the stubble the little nest
Where my bird first opened his baby beak,
While the sunshine painted his yellow breast,
And I sit, and listen to hear him sing;
The meadow lark, with the broken wing.
And lost in the stubble the little nest
Where my bird first opened his baby beak,
While the sunshine painted his yellow breast,
And I sit, and listen to hear him sing;
The meadow lark, with the broken wing.
A few blithe notes, so clear, so high,
They were born for the meadow, the field, the sky;
They are full of the joy of ecstatic wings
And I listen, listen, for sadder things;
But not a cadence I hear of grief,
No minor strain of that cruel sheaf.
They were born for the meadow, the field, the sky;
They are full of the joy of ecstatic wings
And I listen, listen, for sadder things;
But not a cadence I hear of grief,
No minor strain of that cruel sheaf.
Ah! thus will I tune my life, my lark,
Forgetting that some days are cold and dark,
Forgetting my heart's more cruel grief
Than thy broken wing, or thy snaring sheaf;
I will turn to the shadow my broken wing,
I will sit in the sunlight and sing and sing.
Forgetting that some days are cold and dark,
Forgetting my heart's more cruel grief
Than thy broken wing, or thy snaring sheaf;
I will turn to the shadow my broken wing,
I will sit in the sunlight and sing and sing.