It was the lark, the herald of the morn
It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east.
Night's candles are burnt outMetaphor, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain topsPersonification.
I must be gone and live, or stay and dieAlliosis.