The Skylark
Beating wings of gold,
To his breast they fold.
From the heights now descending,
Soaring on winds fair.
Joys of life declare
The skylark's songs unending.
In the meadow sweet,
Comes their call to greet
The new morning wet with dew.
Swaying on a reed,
Seeing my deep need
With my dreams away he flew....
Copyright © Barbara Gorelick | Year Posted 2014
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