Larks

The year's at the springAll's right with the world!

— Larks

Here of a Sunday morningAbout us in the sky.

— Larks

There was an Old Man with a beard,Have all built their nests in my beard.

— Larks

Skylark,Sad as a gypsy serenading the moon.

— Larks

Haply I think on thee, and then my state,From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate

— Larks

KING RICHARD II should sing.

— Larks

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,And Phoebus 'gins arise,

— Larks

The music soars within the little lark,And the lark soars.

— Larks

Oh, stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay,Thy soothing, fond complaining.

— Larks

The merry lark he soars on high,And the daylight that awakes him.

— Larks

The lark now leaves his watery nest,And to implore your light he sings.

— Larks

The pretty Lark, climbing the Welkin cleer,Adieu (she saith) adieu, deer Deer, adieu.

— Larks

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!O, to abide in the desert with thee!

— Larks

Rise with the lark, and with the lark to bed.

— Larks

None but the lark so shrill and clear;The morn not waking till she sings.

— Larks

To hear the lark begin his flight,Till the dappled dawn doth rise.

— Larks

And now the herald larkThe morn's approach, and greet her with his song.

— Larks

The bird that soars on highest wing,What honor hath humility.

— Larks

I said to the sky-poised Lark:A little nest on the ground."

— Larks

No more the mounting larks, while Daphne sings,Shall, list'ning, in mid-air suspend their wings.

— Larks

The sunrise wakes the lark to sing.

— Larks

Then my dial goes not true; I took this lark for a bunting.

— Larks

Hark! hark! the lark at heaven's gate sings,My lady sweet, arise!

— Larks

Some say, that ever 'gainst that season comesSo hallow'd and so gracious is the time.

— Larks

It was the lark, the herald of the morn.

— Larks

It is the lark that sings so out of tune,Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.

— Larks

Lo! here the gentle lark, weary of rest,The sun ariseth in his majesty.

— Larks

Hail to thee blithe Spirit!In profuse strains of unpremeditated art.

— Larks

Better than all measuresThy skill to poet were, thou scorner of the ground!

— Larks

Up springs the lark,Calls up the tuneful nations.

— Larks

The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to buildHer humble nest, lies silent in the field.

— Larks

Ethereal minstrel! pilgrim of the sky!Those quivering wings composed, that music still!

— Larks

Leave to the nightingale her shady wood;True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home!

— Larks