Where did he go, where should he be?
I do not know and neither does he.
Why I saw him in the garden just a quarter past 2:00!
Well what was he doing in the garden with you?
Why he sang me a sonnet, a lovable tune.
Head over heals my heart would swoon.
But you know he can’t be yours, nor I’s, nor anyone else’s!
Oh how I long to hear his song, and feel my worries melted.
But the Woodlark was a bird and in the wild he must stay,
when in need of relief then in the garden he will play-
a song like none ever heard before.
A song now lost to myth and lore.
There may come a day when the Woodlark returns,
for if there is to be a person who so greatly yearns-
to hear the songbird’s tale of love so true,
and to cure the ache that keeps their heart so blue.
Credits for image of painting:
Antique Chromolithograph Published 1907-08, London for “Birds of Great Britain and Ireland…” by Arthur G. Butler. Illustrated by H. Gronvold & F. W. Frohawk.