The Lark
Robert William Service
From wrath-red dawn to wrath-red dawn, The guns have brayed without abate; And now the sick sun looks upon The bleared, blood-boltered fields of hate As if it loathed to rise again. How strange the hush! Yet sudden, hark! From yon down-trodden gold of grain, The leaping rapture of a lark. A fusillade of melody, That sprays us from yon trench of sky; A new amazing enemy We cannot silence though we try; A battery on radiant wings, That from yon gap of golden fleece Hurls at us hopes of such strange things As joy and home and love and peace. Pure heart of song! do you not know That we are making earth a hell? Or is it that you try to show Life still is joy and all is well? Brave little wings! Ah, not in vain You beat into that bit of blue: Lo! we who pant in war’s red rain Lift shining eyes, see Heaven too.
Next 10 Poems
- Robert William Service : The Last Supper
- Robert William Service : The Law Of Laws
- Robert William Service : The Law Of The Yukon
- Robert William Service : The Leaning Tower
- Robert William Service : The Learner
- Robert William Service : The Legless Man
- Robert William Service : The Little Old Log Cabin
- Robert William Service : The Little Piou-piou
- Robert William Service : The Living Dead
- Robert William Service : The Locket
Previous 10 Poems
- Robert William Service : The Land Of Beyond
- Robert William Service : The Land God Forgot
- Robert William Service : The Key Of The Street
- Robert William Service : The Junior God
- Robert William Service : The Judgement
- Robert William Service : The Joy Of Little Things
- Robert William Service : The Joy Of Being Poor
- Robert William Service : The Idealist
- Robert William Service : The Host
- Robert William Service : The Homicide