Myriads of daisies have shone forth in flower Near the lark's nest, and in their natural hour Have passed away less happy than the one That by the unwilling ploughshare died to prove The tender charm of poetry and love.
Quotes about larks (13 Quotes)
Unlike almost every other novel, I wrote Larks for myself, meaning that it was essentially done when I first showed it to an editor.
I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,
I made the garden, and for holiday
Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
And many a flower and medicinal weed--
Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
He said the pleasantest manner of spending a hot July day was lying from morning till evening on a bank of heath in the middle of the moors, with the bees humming dreamily about among the bloom, and the larks singing high up overhead, and the blue sky and bright sun shining steadily and cloudlessly.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place, and in the sky, The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard among the guns below.
The day's at the morn Mornings at seven The hillside's dew-pearled The lark's on the wing The snail's on the thorn God's in his heaven All's right with the world.
There was an old man with a beard, who said: 'It is just as I feared! Two owls and a hen, four larks and a wren have all built their nests in my beard.
Basically we have a tiny little gland in the middle of our brains that controls when we sleep and when we are awake as well as many other things. And many of us are programmed, as it were, to either be night owls (want to go to sleep late) or larks, where we want to go to bed early.
Teenagers travel in droves, packs, swarms. . . . To the librarian, they're a gaggle of geese. To the cook, they're a scourge of locusts. To department stores they're a big beautiful exaltation of larks . . . all lovely and loose and jingly.
If the skies fall, one may hope to catch larks.
Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, The clamtrous lapwings feel the leaden death Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare They fall, and leave their little lives in air.
Isn't it queer there are only two or three human stories, and they go on repeating themselves as fiercely as if they had never happened before like the larks in this country that have been singing the same five notes over for thousands of years
Here of a Sunday morning My love and I would lie, And see the coloured counties, And hear the larks so high About us in the sky.