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Poem	Singing larks I saw for sale - (Ah! the pain of it) Plucked and ready to impale On a roasting spit; Happy larks that summer-long Stormed the radiant sky, Adoration in their song . . . Packed to make a pie.> Hark! from springs of joy unseen Spray their jewelled notes. Tangle them in nets of green, Twist their lyric throats; Clip their wings and string them tight, Stab them with a skewer, All to tempt the apptite Of the epicure. Shade of Shelley! Come not nigh This accursèd spot, Where for sixpence one can buy Skylarks for the pot; Dante, paint a blacker hell, Plunge in deeper darks Wretches who can slay and sell Sunny-hearted larks. You who eat, you are the worst: By internal pains, May you ever be accurst Who pluck these poor remains. But for you wingèd joy would soar To heaven from the sod: In ecstasy a lark would pour Its gratitude to God.
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