From life, of late, I must confess,
I have withdrawn a while.
Life’s ground me down and does depress,
and I can’t raise a smile.
Mundane and melancholic days
I’d written off, returned.
The verse I’d wove with weary words
I’ve gathered up and burned.
But now I’ve heard the skylark sing,
‘midst morning’s bird song choir,
and harsh offence I dare not bring
to heaven’s highest flier.
For high o’er far flung Flanders Fields,
round Trench Town’s Terror Towers
those birds flew over battlefields
from dawn, for many hours.
As soldiers struggled to break free,
feet sunk in deep damp sod,
the skylark’s song did seem to be
the very voice of God.
Those little birds brought spring’s delight
from home, their hearts to cheer.
To lift them out of war’s dark night,
free them, a while, from fear.
By their grim dawn, my own I weigh,
and dare no longer whine!
For they found hope in cruellest clay
where death had come to dine!
I cherish now, by cheerful choice;
my pain - that paltry thing!
And swap self-pity’s petty voice,
for skylark\'s song I sing!