The Eucharist and Propriety

Meadowlark
Sweet waking sound, the golden fleet
far-sounding across the field,
stirs me so to yearn for living,
praising the Primal Source
of such melodious meditations.
That voice, so sweet, sounds
like the dew sun-twinkling.
The neighborly sparrow-yammering
is pleasant peasantry all right,
and they are fit for parables,
offerings, and the delight of catnaps.
If their ending one-fall impinges
upon the conductor’s orchestration,
then You shall surpass and
sing the High Mass without knowing
such fatality, or mortal knavery.
Heralding of spring and autumn
done from the lone rampike at mid-morn
is overly sufficient for dove, robin,
finch, or blackbird with epaulettes.
Yours is the day-song long sung
in winter’s rememberings of milder days.
Sing then, Brother, and I will pray,
or pray, and I shall weep!
Such prosody is never mine,
such confidence lost by evil-knowing.
And you, O Christ, have known all this
since before simplicity left us.
Like a lark you heralded
and like a sparrow, passed.
But never sparrow nor even lark
could do as You, My Lord, have done:
Sparrow and lark, bird and note,
in You are raised, forever One.