To the Skylark

The skylark in the lovely month of June,
As on and up it soars so blithe and free
On nimble wings with golden throat in tune,
Pours out its strains of sweetest melody.
There is no darkened cloud to dim its course,
Nor angry storm its trusted hopes to blight;
It draws its power from that Mysterious Source
That fills the world with law and Love and Light
And guides the mighty eagle in its flight.

Teach me, O God, the secret of its heart
When in the dazzling heights so near to Thee,
It still sends forth its flood of wondrous art
To fill the listening world with ecstasy;
And how this arbiter of boundless sky,
Along with Thee to guide its tiny brain,
Will fold its tireless wings without a sigh,
And, as my hopes and plans and efforts vain,
Like a falling star drop to the earth again.

~ Henry Polk Lowenstein