The lark
The pale day fades and leaves the world to the unseen.
Light shatters on the lucent fern and ancient silver bark,
to a thousand opalescent pieces, mourned by a lone lark,
singing her domain to sleep from a throne of glossy green.
The time that left its mark on me has left her song pristine.
Her voice was heard in ancient time to greet the mellow moon
in selfsame rhyme and cadence fair that fills this eve in June,
and travels through the dark verdure akin a brimming stream.
The tune of star-lit gloaming - like the silver rain of spring-,
trickles through the velvet beams -the soft sun’s last caress-,
and dances through the sacred groves, adorned with twilight’s dress,
like a dead day’s recollection, carried on a lustrous wing.
The last light of the day is gone and night’s blue veil descends;
The lark kisses the world good-night and so her fair song ends
on a trembling silver note that like a raindrop in the sea,
fades into the balmy night and finds its way to me.
