Like an Indian of the high Andes, O song, incomprehensibly both ways Joy! Help! Joy! Help! – A whippet head, barbed like a hunting arrow, O lark But leaden With muscle IV For the struggle Against You stop to rest, far up, you teeter Earth’s centre Over the drop. And leaden But not stopping singing For ballast Resting only for a second In the rocketing storms of the breath. Dropping just a little Leaden Then up and up and up Like a bullet Like a with drowning fur To supplant Bobbing and bobbing at the well-wall Life from its centre. Lamenting, mounting a little – But the sun will not take notice II And the earth’s centre smiles. Crueller than owl or eagle V A towered bird, shot through the crested head With the command, My idleness curdles Not die Seeing the lark labour near its cloud But climb Scrambling Climb In a nightmare difficulty Sing Up through the nothing Obedient as to death a dead thing. Its feathers thrash, its heart must be drumming like a motor, As if it were too late, too late. Dithering in ether Its song whirls faster and faster And the sun whirls III The lark is evaporating Till my eye’s gossamer snaps I suppose you just gape and let your gaspings and my hearing floats back widely to earth. Rip in and out through your voicebox After which the sky lies blank open O lark Without wings, and the earth is a folded clod. And sing inwards as well as outwards Only the sun goes silently and endlessly on with the lark’s song. Like a breaker of rolling the shingle O lark
Like an Indian of the high Andes, A whippet head, barbed like a hunting arrow, But leaden With muscle For the struggle Against Earth’s centre And leaden For ballast In the rocketing storms of the breath. Leaden Like a bullet To supplant Life from its centre. II Crueller than owl or eagle A towered bird, shot through the crested head With the command, Not die But climb Climb Sing Obedient as to death a dead thing. III I suppose you just gape and let your gaspings Rip in and out through your voicebox O lark And sing inwards as well as outwards Like a breaker of rolling the shingle O lark O song, incomprehensibly both ways – Joy! Help! Joy! Help! O lark IV You stop to rest, far up, you teeter Over the drop. But not stopping singing Resting only for a second Dropping just a little Then up and up and up Like a with drowning fur Bobbing and bobbing at the well-wall Lamenting, mounting a little – But the sun will not take notice And the earth’s centre smiles. V My idleness curdles Seeing the lark labour near its cloud Scrambling In a nightmare difficulty Up through the nothing Its feathers thrash, its heart must be drumming like a motor, As if it were too late, too late. Dithering in ether Its song whirls faster and faster And the sun whirls The lark is evaporating Till my eye’s gossamer snaps and my hearing floats back widely to earth. After which the sky lies blank open Without wings, and the earth is a folded clod. Only the sun goes silently and endlessly on with the lark’s song.
ted_hughes_poetry.docx