The moorline fumes like a pane of ice held up to the thawing blue.
And the lark, that toad of the roots,
Begins under the ear’s moist threshold.

Then out and up, the lung’s deep muscle
Building the stair, lifting stone
By stone a stair up the air , taking his time

To score the face of every stone as he sings
With a scoring and scribbling chisel,
This is the way the lark climbs into the sun-

Till your eye’s gossamer snaps and your hearing flouts 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.