Verse > Anthologies > Hunt and Lee, eds. > The Book of the Sonnet
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Hunt and Lee, comps.  The Book of the Sonnet.  1867.
 
I. To a Lark
By 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,        5
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;        10
  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!
 
 
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