The Lark's Song
Every tree in the garden has bloomed in mild afternoon,
brushing with their branches the perfumed rose bushes below;
why hasn't her mate returned: it's spring and the doves coon!
There's a certain sadness in the sun's cheerless glow...
the lark's song is utterly sad to make any sensitive heart cry;
what kind of comfort can I give her, if not another alibi?
Let me listen to her notes that sound like melodies once written with quills;
it's a sorrowful message sent over miles of forests and blooming hills,
and it echoes in valleys and plains touched by the softness of the skies...
will he hear it and fly back in a matter of hours to console the one in demise?
If I could communicate in song, I'd tell her not to lose heart or worsen her plight;
she must wait without giving up hope and not be afraid of the moonless night.
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