The Ecstatic

Lark, skylark, spilling your rubbed and round Pebbles of sounds in air's still lake, Whose widening circles fill the noon; yet none Is known so small beside the sun: Be strong your fervent soaring, your skyward air! Tremble there, a nerve of song! Float up there where voice and wing are one, A singing star, a note of light! Buoyed, embayed in heaven's noon-wide]reaches- For soon Light's tide will turn - Oh Stay! Cease not till day streams to the west, then down That estuary drop down to peace.