My Heart Thy Lark

Why dost thou want to sing
  When thou hast no song, my heart?
If there be in thee a hidden spring,
  Wherefore will no word start?

On its way thou hearest no song,
  Yet flutters thy unborn joy!
The years of thy life are growing long⁠—
  Art still the heart of a boy?⁠—

Father, I am thy child!
  My heart is in thy hand!
Let it hear some echo, with gladness wild,
  Of a song in thy high land.

It will answer⁠—but how, my God,
  Thou knowest; I cannot say:
It will spring, I know, thy lark, from thy sod⁠—
  Thy lark to meet thy day!