Swift through the yielding air I glide,
   while night's sable shades abide:
 Yet in my flight (though ne're so fast)
   I tune and time the wild winds blast:
 And ere the sun be come about,
   teach the young lark his lesson out;
 Who early as the day is born
   sings his shrill anthem to the rising morn:
 Let never mortal lose the pains
   to imitate my aiery strains,
 Whose pitch too high for human ears,
   was set me by the tuneful spheres.

 I carol to the fairies' King,
   wakes him a-morning when I sing:
 And when the sun stoops to the deep,
   rock him again and his fair Queen asleep.