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