And I have seen, at dawn, the lark spin out of the long grass and into the pink air - its wings, which are neither wide nor overstrong, fluttering - the pectorals ploughing and flashing for nothing but altitude - and the song bursting all the while from the red throat. And then he descends, and is sorry. His little head hangs and he pants for breath for a few moments among the hoops of the grass, which are crisp and dry, where most of his living is done - and then something summons him again and up he goes, his shoulders working, his whole body almost collapsing and floating to the edges of the world. We are reconciled, I think, to too much. Better to be a bird, like this one - an ornament of the eternal. As he came down once, to the nest of the grass, â€œSquander the day, but save the soul, â€ I heard him say.