With its effort hooked to the sun, a swinging ladder
With its song
A labour of its whole body
Thatching the sun with bird-joy
To keep off the rains of weariness
The snows of extinction
With its labour
Of a useless excess, lifting what can only fall
With its crest
Which it intends to put on the sun
Which it meanwhile wears itself
So earth can be crested
With its song
Erected between dark and dark
The lark that lives and dies
In the service of its crest.