Teevo cheevo cheevio chee:   
O where, what can that be?   
Weedio-weedio: there again!   
So tiny a trickle of sóng-strain;   
And all round not to be found          
For brier, bough, furrow, or gréen ground   
Before or behind or far or at hand   
Either left either right   
Anywhere in the sunlight.   
Well, after all! Ah but hark—    
‘I am the little wóodlark.
   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   
To-day the sky is two and two   
With white strokes and strains of the blue
   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   
Round a ring, around a ring   
And while I sail (must listen) I sing
   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .    
The skylark is my cousin and he   
Is known to men more than me
   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   
          ...when the cry within   
Says Go on then I go on   
Till the longing is less and the good gone    
   
But down drop, if it says Stop,   
To the all-a-leaf of the tréetop   
And after that off the bough
   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   
I am so very, O so very glad   
That I do think there is not to be had...
   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .    
The blue wheat-acre is underneath   
And the braided ear breaks out of the sheath,   
The ear in milk, lush the sash,   
And crush-silk poppies aflash,   
The blood-gush blade-gash    
Flame-rash rudred   
Bud shelling or broad-shed   
Tatter-tassel-tangled and dingle-a-dangled   
Dandy-hung dainty head.
   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   
And down ... the furrow dry    
Sunspurge and oxeye   
And laced-leaved lovely   
Foam-tuft fumitory
   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   
Through the velvety wind V-winged   
To the nest’s nook I balance and buoy    
With a sweet joy of a sweet joy,   
Sweet, of a sweet, of a sweet joy   
Of a sweet—a sweet—sweet—joy.’