Arthur Rackman - "The Song of the Lark"Being surrounded by and moving through the beauty of nature, the mountains and forests, meadows and streams, causes a desire to press up from inside me as a mountain spring presses through the ground and pours forth. As I walk through the forest, catching a glimpse of a hidden meadow here, a group of wild flowers there, and step through a little stream rolling playfully over my path... I long to be part of a story.
I desire sometimes to be the breeze that flows above and smiles in delight upon the stream running along beneath me. I fancy being the river or a naiad within it, gliding gracefully, playfully, or peacefully from mountain spring to lake, and even, perhaps, to the sea, always singing along the way. Singing. Sometimes a sad song which strangely comforts the lonely dreamer who knows that the water speaks to him with understanding. Sometimes a song rippling sweetly with peace and serenity that causes a soul, though filled with the greatest terror ere sitting by the side of this wide river, to soon be released of dread, and wonder how such fear could have held him with so strong a hand, when all the while the world contained a beauty that speaks of great unending love, flowing as endlessly as the river, sweeping far away all fear and torment from the soul of any man who will but sit and listen and believe its song. And sometimes still, a song of joy, ringing on the stones, rushing over and around boulder and tree, urging all to join in its endless praise and delight. Then leaping from simple delight to zealous passion, a song that soars from broken earth to dive deep among the rocks below, surging in strength and power that makes the strongest man appear weak, but urges him to yet grow stronger, mightier, and humbler.
And so, as a river, I would sing a song for every man if he will but leave the noise of life and listen.
But if I cannot be the water and its song, I wish at least to follow one of those little streams, discover its patient course through obstacles and the life that it has nourished in all colours and shapes growing gratefully by its side, and finally find its source. To drink from a mountain spring… where the birth, the giving of life, is continual, and the life that comes forth leaves its source only to give life to all it meets allong its chosen course.
And, if it were possible, I would, indeed, like to become the night sky. With the folds of my cloak and the locks of my hair flowing far over the world, wrapping it in darkness. My care would go out to those exposed to my gaze. I’d see all that went forth thought unseen. Some men cower and shiver, filled with terror at night, but they know not that I watch and them keep. Lovers gaze at my beauty in awe and delight, foolishly comparing the light of my stars or my silvery face to the one they hold close to themselves in the closeness of night and the intimacy that I provide. I would see those who wander, lost from the light of the fires and candles that wait for them in the places that they call their homes; though the wisest of these know the help they can find in the signs I provide as their guide, and these look with peace and a joy at my lights, rather than dwelling on the darkness at their feet. Then there are those, who sit ever still, neither lost, plotting, nor seeking a place for to hide away with the one whom they love. These lay under my gaze for its sake alone and adore me from their place below. They marvel at my beauty, find comfort in my covering, and appreciate the silence I bring that allows their quiet thoughts to come forth. Then I hear things that no one else will ever hear; quiet songs that rise gently to my ear; heartfelt confessions that bring release to the soul; earnest prayers and genuine praise; lines of poetry read for the first time aloud; till they finally sneak back to bed.
Perhaps it is because I am of this last sort, that I should like to be once the night sky. Her beauty draws the spirit nigh to the point of awareness that sight has in the day.
To be, for but one absence of sun, the night sky….
And so nature’s beauty surrounds and overwhelms me and, as it has done to Romantics throughout the lifetime of Man, it pulls nearer the surface the poet that lives in my soul that desires to express the Beauty it knows and sees, and to thus praise the Creator who is more Glorious than all of His living creation.
So, as a lutist bows to the king he sings tales of when his song is done and his lute silent, to the King I bow to the ground from which springs all the creation of which I have sought to paint a picture as it is a reflection of His Beauty. And if this is a disfigured reflection, as I am a distorted image, how much more Beautiful and Glorious will be the New Heaven and Earth which we long for, though we may not know for what we groan.
So I bow to the ground, which points to the sky, and sings ever of His Glorious Name.
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