The Little Red Lark

Alfred Perceval Graves (1846–1931)

O SWAN of slenderness,

Dove of tenderness,

Jewel of joys, arise!

The little red lark,

Like a soaring spark

Of song, to his sunburst flies;

But till thou art arisen,

Earth is a prison,

Full of my lonesome sighs:

Then awake and discover,

To thy fond lover,

The morn of thy matchless eyes.

The dawn is dark to me,

Hark! oh, hark to me,

Pulse of my heart, I pray!

And out of thy hiding

With blushes gliding,

Dazzle me with thy day.

Ah, then once more to thee

Flying I ’ll pour to thee

Passion so sweet and gay,

The larks shall listen,

And dew-drops glisten,

Laughing on every spray.