When I did wake, to-day, a bird of Heaven,
A wanton, woeless thing, a wandering sprite,
Did seem to sing a song for my delight;
And, far away, did make its holy steven
Sweeter to hear than lute-strings that are seven;
And I did weep thereat in my despite.
II.
O glorious sun! I thought, O gracious king,
Of all this splendour that we call the earth!
For thee the lark distils his morning mirth,