On the Wing
Out of a tuft a little lark
Went higher up than I could mark,
His little throat was all one thirst
To sing until his heart should burst,
To sing aloft in golden light
His song from blue air out of sight.
John Masefield.
When birdies sing on every tree.
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the skylarks sing with me,
O what sweet company.
William Blake.