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The Lark
![Mary Oliver, Mary Oliver poetry, Secular or Eclectic, Secular or Eclectic poetry, poetry, [TRADITION SUB2] poetry, poetry](images/OliverMar_sm.jpg) |
by Mary Oliver
(1935 - ) Timeline
Original Language English
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And I have seen, at dawn, the lark spin out of the long grass
and into the pink air -- its wings, which are neither wide nor overstrong,
fluttering -- the pectorals ploughing and flashing for nothing but altitude --
and the song bursting all the while from the red throat.
And then he descends, and is sorry. His little head hangs and he pants for breath
for a few moments among the hoops of the grass, which are crisp and dry, where most of his living is done --
and then something summons him again and up he goes, his shoulders working, his whole body almost collapsing and floating
to the edges of the world. We are reconciled, I think, to too much. Better to be a bird, like this one --
an ornament of the eternal. As he came down once, to the nest of the grass, Squander the day, but save the soul, I heard him say.
 / Photo by desertgecko /
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