Larks are the sparks

   Torn from the revolving earth

As it turns like a wheel through the night.

Larks are the sound

   To which silence is echo:

From their throat flows the river of light.

Larks are the dance

   In which the dancer is still －

Finding the perfect pose for their restless will.

Larks are the form

   To which all movement moves,

Sculpture bends, and music sings.

   They have such grace they fly from us;

   They are God’s grace with wings!

－ Ronald Duncan

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