O Spirit‑Lark that wakest ere the morn
        And art reborn
At each recoming of the sun, and art 
        The wiser part
Of all that message is to our low eyes 
        Of what shall rise!
Life‑weightless Bird that no meads can attract, 
        But that must act
Its fate in air, above our marshes sad 
        And meads low‑laid,
In free heights communing with the Great Horn 
        As yet unborn!
O sterile Bird that hast no nest nor home 
        But what shall come,
That hast no song save in the heights above 
        Nests, homes and love,
Nor any thought save for the coming day, 
        Though far away
It seem to those who measure yet thy flight 
        But by its height
And not by its intention, that is carried 
        From life and married
To those diviner hours that winged things 
        Find with their wings!
O Bird of ruthless song and untold wishes, 
        Whose high flight reaches
Heights not of earth, but of pure air, encumbered 
        With no joys weighed and numbered!
Take all my heart in thy purpose of going 
        And make the flowing
Down to earth of my song be like thy song, 
        Something strange, strong
With distance, eerily half‑perishing 
        From farness! Sing,
And let my heart be what thou meanst with singings 
        My life with wingin
My hopes and fears with th’tone wherewith thy note 
        To me doth float
And the great purpose hidden in my fate 
        With thy mere height!