Mary Ainge De Vere

Poet and Lark

WHEN leaves turn outward to the light,
  And all the roads are fringed with green,
When larks are pouring, high, unseen,
  The joy they find in song and flight,
Then I, too, with the lark would wing 
My little flight, and, soaring, sing.

When larks drop downward to the nest,
  And day drops downward to the sea,
And song and wing are fain to rest,
  The lark’s dear wisdom guideth me,
And I too turn within my door,
Content to dream, and sing no more.