Hunt and Lee, comps. The Book of the Sonnet. 1867.
I. To a LarkRobert Southey (17741843)
O
Twinkling thy wings, dost sing so joyfully,
I watch thee soaring with a deep delight,
And when at last I turn mine aching eye
That lags below thee in the infinite,
Still in my heart receive thy melody.
O thou sweet lark, that I had wings like thee!
Not for the joy it were in yon blue light
Upward to mount, and from my heavenly height
Gaze on the creeping multitude below;
But that I soon would wing my eager flight
To that loved home, where Fancy even now
Hath fled, and Hope looks onward through a tear,
Counting the weary hours that hold her here!