To the Lark

And am I up with thee, light-hearted minion?
Who never dost thine early flight forego,
Catching for aye upon thy gamesome pinion
What was to fill some lily's cup below,
The matin dew-fall? What is half so thrilling
As thy glad voice i' th' argent prime of light?
Whether in grassy nest, when thou art billing,
Or thus aloft and mocking human sight?
Peace dwells with thee for ever — not the peace
Of cool reflection, but redundant glee,
And with such vocal token of wild ease
Thou dost reveal thy proud immunity
From mortal care, that thou perforce must please:
Fair fall thy rapid song, sweet bird, and thee!