Matin.
I.
Only when mounting sings the lark,
Struggling to fields of purer air
Silent her music when she turns
Back to a world of gloom and care!
II.
Only when mounting sings my heart,
Fluttering on tremulous wing to God!
Fainter the music as I fall—
Mute, when I reach the lower sod!
III.
Lark, in my heart this morn astir,
Upward to God on eager wing!
Seek for one pure, celestial draught,
Fresh from th' eternal Music-Spring!
Richard Storks Willis.