Robert Southey (1774–1843)

O THOU sweet lark, who in the heaven so high

Twinkling thy wings, dost sing so joyfully,

I watch thee soaring with a deep delight,

And when at last I turn mine aching eye

That lags below thee in the infinite,

Still in my heart receive thy melody.

O thou sweet lark, that I had wings like thee!

Not for the joy it were in yon blue light

Upward to mount, and from my heavenly height

Gaze on the creeping multitude below;

But that I soon would wing my eager flight

To that loved home, where Fancy even now

Hath fled, and Hope looks onward through a tear,

Counting the weary hours that hold her here!