The Lark
Wake! Wake!
I spy from my eyrie up here in the sky
That Night the old Beldam is turning to fly—
Wake! Wake!
With her crutch and her cloak and her movable eye.
Wake! Wake!
Her raiment of darkness is tatter’d and torn:
She weeps as she creeps away, old and forlorn;
The Gods in their chariots o’er whelm her with scorn;