For singing till his heaven fills 'Tis love of earth that he instils, And ever winging up and up, Our valley is his golden cup, And he the wine which overflows.
O happy skylark springing Up to the broad, blue sky, Too fearless in thy winging, Too gladsome in thy singing, Thou also soon shalt lie Where no sweet notes are ringing.
Thou art mine, thou hast given thy word, Close, close in my arms thou art clinging; Alone for my ear thou art singing A song which no stranger hath heard: But afar from me yet, like a bird, Thy soul in some region unstirr'd On its mystical circuit is winging.edmund clarence stedman
He that has no present Christ has a future, dark, chaotic, heaving with its destructive ocean; and over it there goes forever black-pinioned, winging its solitary and hopeless flight, the raven of his anxious thoughts, and finds no place to rest, and comes back again to the desolate ark with its foreboding croak of evil in the present and evil in the future.
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