Poems (Hardy)/With the field-lark

WITH THE FIELD-LARK

HEARKEN,
Dear lark,
And tell me true,
I have reasons for singing,
But what have you?

"O the prospect blue,
The ground and the grass,
And freedom to roam there,
And a dear little home there,
When the night-winds come to pass.
What better, dear mortal, have you?"

Ah, bird
Of the relevant word,
What thou hast, and I think I own,
Let us not measure together.
The same sky and the same weather
Fall to my share of the world;
And all that is or shall be sown
Of field-flower or wood-flower or vine,
All that's furled
In seed of oak or pine,
Are as much yours as mine,
Are as much mine as yours;
Only, there are scores and scores
Of closed or open doors:
Many I enter thou canst not see,
And thy palaces are not for me;
But comrade to my thought thou art
In the blessedest part,
The joy of living, and faith
In what the book of Nature saith—
That life will all seem good
When the worst is forgot
And the best understood;
When we see that the blot
On the page is only one
Great shadow of self in the sun.

The preaching is done,
Little chorister; one little hymn,
Now, ere I go through field-paths dim,
Benedicite, the good night falls,
Benedicite, thy mate calls,
Benedicite.