The Lark and the Rowan Tree
The maiden opens the window
And smiles into the warmth of the sun.
She hums softly as she sweeps the floor,
Guiding the broom with her hands in time.
To and fro,
Back and forth.
When lo! thereupon the window sill
A little brown lark chooses to alight.
He beckons the maiden outdoors
With a clear, bright voice as he sweetly sings.
A merry tune,
A joyful tune.
With the final note, he takes to flight
And calls for the maiden to follow.
She leaves the broom, and forgets her shoes,
Bare feet carry her after the lark.
Into the woods,
The stirring woods.
She spies the bird high above on a branch
As he breaks forth into cheerful song.
The little brown lark hops from limb to limb,
Chasing the voices that echo his strain.
The Chorus of Spring.
Quickly the maiden, with eyes so bright
And cheeks of rosy hue, runs after the lark.
Past trees reborn, ’til she comes to a glade
Where a little river gushes joyfully.
Tripping and splashing,
Rolling and laughing.
Across the river, on the other side,
A young rowan tree is in full bloom.
The warm, golden sunlight illuminates
The pure white flowers. And from behind, the lark
And singing loud.
O rowan tree, who in splendor shines
And embraces the sun with uplifted arms,
Who drinks deep from the bubbling stream!
Thy graceful beauty enhances the melody.
Song of life,
Life of Spring.
Creation’s beauty stirs the bare-foot maid
To cast aside her winter cloak.
With laughing voice, she twirls and dances,
An offering of praise to the Father on High,
Who made the lark
And the rowan tree.