High on the Lincolnshire Wold all is quiet and you are alone.
Great views of twenty miles, then suddenly out of silence, you hear the Skylark.
The song is insistent high in ringing tone.
The happy chirruping sound determined to make its mark.

To you have I lifted up my eyes.
You who dwell in the heavens.
See the skylark, in hidden cornfields he lies.
You cannot see him, only his voice beckons.

Then you return in wooded valley descent.
Here is all friendly cacophony.
The blackbird, chaffinch, song thrush, robin and pheasant.
All around movement, flight, song, and harmony.

But I remember the Skylark, rarer now, on the high wold.
His timid song heard not seen, of hidden memories untold.