What falls while sleeping, speaks to me;
a grace upon that frozen ground,
a voice that dreams, what things might be—
in restlessness, and melting round
the base of a bejeweled spruce—
I\'d thought, wherein were only larks.
Though seeing icemelt in the grass,
and loose, I think it\'s not so stark:
What\'s dreamt in falling, need not last, and I
can learn to love a Lark.