Mary Oliver: The Lark

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.

Poetry Chaikhana
Sacred Poetry from Around the World

About Mary Oliver

Poetry Chaikhana Sacred Poetry from Around the World

About Mary Oliver

Poetry Chaikhana
Sacred Poetry from Around the World