With The Lark
by Paul Laurence Dunbar
Night is for sorrow and dawn is for joy,
Chasing the troubles that fret and annoy;
Darkness for sighing and daylight for song,--
Cheery and chaste the strain, heartfelt and
strong.
All the night through, though I moan in the
dark,
I wake in the morning to sing with the lark.
Deep in the midnight the rain whips the leaves,
Softly and sadly the wood-spirit grieves.
But when the first hue of dawn tints the sky,
I shall shake out my wings like the birds and
be dry;
And though, like rain-drops, I grieved
through the dark,
I shall wake in the morning to sing with the
lark.
On the high hills of heaven, some morning to
be,
Where the rain shall not grieve thro’ the leaves
of the tree,
There my heart will be glad for the pain I have
known,
For my hand will be clasped in the hand of
mine own;
And though life has been hard and death’s path-
way been dark,
I shall wake in the morning to sing with the
lark.
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