The Woodlark
Teevo cheevo cheevio chee: O where, what can tháat be? Weedio-weedio: there again! So tiny a trickle of sóng-strain; And all round not to be found For brier, bough, furrow, or gréen ground Before or behind or far or at hand Either left either right Anywhere in the súnlight. Well, after all! Ah but hark— ‘I am the little wóodlark. . . . . . . . To-day the sky is two and two With white strokes and strains of the blue . . . . . . . Round a ring, around a ring And while I sail (must listen) I sing . . . . . . . The skylark is my cousin and he Is known to men more than me . . . . . . . ...when the cry within Says Go on then I go on Till the longing is less and the good gone
But down drop, if it says Stop, To the all-a-leaf of the tréetop And after that off the bough . . . . . . . I ám so véry, O soó very glad That I dó think there is not to be had... . . . . . . . The blue wheat-acre is underneath And the braided ear breaks out of the sheath, The ear in milk, lush the sash, And crush-silk poppies aflash, The blood-gush blade-gash Flame-rash rudred Bud shelling or broad-shed Tatter-tassel-tangled and dingle-a-dangled Dandy-hung dainty head. . . . . . . . And down ... the furrow dry Sunspurge and oxeye And laced-leaved lovely Foam-tuft fumitory . . . . . . . Through the velvety wind V-winged To the nest’s nook I balance and buoy With a sweet joy of a sweet joy, Sweet, of a sweet, of a sweet joy Of a sweet—a sweet—sweet—joy
