Spring... Spring... Spring... The Lark Ascending. He rises and begins to round, He drops the silver chain of sound, Of many links without a break, In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake, All intervolved and spreading wide, Like water-dimples down a tide where ripple ripple over-curls and eddy into eddy whirls;

A press of hurried notes that run
So fleet they scarce are more than one,
Yet challengingly the trills repeat
And linger ringing while they fleet,
Sweet to the quick o'the ear, and dear
To her beyond the handmaid ear,
Who sits beside our inner springs,
Too often dry for this he brings,

Which seems the very jet of earth
At sight of sun, her music's mirth,
As up he wings the spiral stair,
A song of light, pierces air
With fountain ardour, fountain play,
To reach the shining tops of day,

And drink in everything discerned
An ecstasy to music turned
Impelled by what his happy bill
Disperses; drinking, showering still,
Unthinking save that he may give
His voice the outlet, there to live
Renewed in endless notes of glee,
So thirsty of his voice is he,
For all to hear and all to know
That he is joy, awake, aglow,
The tumult of the heart to hear
Through pureness filtered crystal-clear,
And know the pleasure sprinkled bright
By simple singing of delight.

And you shall hear the herb and tree,
Spring, 
Spring,
The better heart of men shall see,
Shall feel celestially, as long
As you crave nothing save the song.