“Good morrow, my lord!” in the sky alone Sang the lark as the sun ascended his throne. “Shine on me, my lord: I only am come, Of all your servants, to welcome you home!
I have shot straight up, a whole hour, I swear, To catch the first gleam of your golden hair.” “Must I thank you then,” said the king, “sir Lark, For flying so high and hating the dark?
You ask a full cup for half a thirst: Half was love of me, half love to be first. Some of my subjects serve better my taste: Their watching and waiting means more than your haste.”
King Sun wrapt his head in a turban of cloud; Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed; But higher he flew, for he thought, “Anon The wrath of the king will be over and gone;
And, scattering his head-gear manifold, He will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold!” He flew, with the strength of a lark he flew, But as he rose the cloud rose too;
And not one gleam of the flashing hair Brought signal of favour across the air; And his wings felt withered and worn and old, For their feathers had had no chrism of gold.
Outwearied at length, and throbbing sore, The strong sun-seeker could do no more; He faltered and sank, then dropped like a stone Beside his nest, where, patient, alone,
Sat his little wife on her little eggs, Keeping them warm with wings and legs. Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing! There was the cloudless, the ray-crowned king!
“Welcome, sir Lark!— You look tired!” said he; “Up is not always the best way to me: While you have been racing my turban gray, I have been shining where you would not stay!”
He had set a coronet round the nest; Its radiance foamed on the wife's little breast; And so glorious was she in russet gold That sir Lark for wonder and awe grew cold;
He popped his head under her wing, and lay As still as a stone till king Sun went away.
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