Lord Of The Air Poem by Alexander Anderson

Over the meadow is singing
A lark as loud as can be;
He is lord of the air, and his music
Falls down with the sunshine on me.


It falls as soft as the murmur
Of faint sweet summer rain,
But the mirth that lies hid in its rapture,
Is a mirth that brings me pain.


I turn away from the river,
For its music is sad and strange;
It, too, has a whisper of sorrow,
And that whisper speaks of change.


I turn from the hills around me,
For every one that I see
Seems to have a rift in its friendship,
And its looks have altered to me.


But still above the meadow
The lark is singing his song;
There is no jar in his music,
For his little soul is strong.


And I, who listen, a dreamer,
That is thinking of human things,
Were that heart of his in my bosom,
I could sing to-day as he sings.