adamdaniel

The Song of the Lark

The dawn arises, tinted gold,
The icy meadows lacquered cold,
The sun is burnished pink below,
A lonely, pallid glow.

The smoke lifts up in ghostly flight,
Proceeding from the fire light,
The embers give the only cheer,
In landscape spread austere.

Slumberous, in lethargy,
We brace against the misery,
Of lack that marks these sombre days,
Despondent in the haze.

The lark sings out in winsome croon,
Her overtures a happy boon.
Announcing that she will not fall,
By winter’s bitter pall.

The stacks of hay are snugly curled,
Like shells upon this barren world,
The work of weeks of toil and strain,
With precious little gain.

The wage is miserly and stark,
Travailing into cloaking dark,
With glinting sweat upon the brow,
The burden of the plow.

Aching limbs and aching bones,
A lot that all my mind bemoans,
With enervation to destroy,
A life designed for joy.

Vim would find me by my friends,
Companionship that brings amends,
For loneliness that galls the soul,
Or seeks to slay me whole.

Although depression spreads anon,
And I lament to see the sun,
The lark and those I love can cheer,
This labyrinth of fear.

Painting “The Song of the Lark”, Jules Breton (French, 1827–1906)