Sir Lark And King Sun.

"Good morrow, my lord!" in the sky alone     Sang the lark as the sun ascended his throne.     "Shine on me, my lord: I only am come,     Of all your servants, to welcome you home!     I have shot straight up, a whole hour, I swear,     To catch the first gleam of your golden hair."     "Must I thank you then," said the king, "sir Lark,     For flying so high and hating the dark?     You ask a full cup for half a thirst:     Half was love of me, half love to be first.     Some of my subjects serve better my taste:     Their watching and waiting means more than your haste."     King Sun wrapt his head in a turban of cloud;     Sir Lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed;     But higher he flew, for he thought, "Anon     The wrath of the king will be over and gone;     And, scattering his head-gear manifold,     He will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold!"     He flew, with the strength of a lark he flew,     But as he rose the cloud rose too;     And not one gleam of the flashing hair     Brought signal of favour across the air;     And his wings felt withered and worn and old,     For their feathers had had no chrism of gold.     Outwearied at length, and throbbing sore,     The strong sun-seeker could do no more;     He faltered and sank, then dropped like a stone     Beside his nest, where, patient, alone,     Sat his little wife on her little eggs,     Keeping them warm with wings and legs.     Did I say alone? Ah, no such thing!     There was the cloudless, the ray-crowned king!     "Welcome, sir Lark!--You look tired!" said he;     "Up is not always the best way to me:     While you have been racing my turban gray,     I have been shining where you would not stay!"     He had set a coronet round the nest;     Its radiance foamed on the wife's little breast;     And so glorious was she in russet gold     That sir Lark for wonder and awe grew cold;     He popped his head under her wing, and lay     As still as a stone till king Sun went away.