The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
Sentiment: NEGATIVE
If the skies fall, one may hope to catch larks.
My love is a hummingbird sitting that quiet moment on the bough, as the same cat crouches.
You arrive at a village, and in this calm environment, one starts to hear echo.
Silence is the sleep that nourishes wisdom.
Silence is the wit of fools.
There is a quiet about the life of a farmer, and the hope of a serene old age, that no other business or profession can promise.
When sparrows build and the leaves break forth, My old sorrow wakes and cries.
Silence is the virtue of fools.
In Flanders fields the poppies blow Between the crosses, row on row, That mark our place, and in the sky, The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard among the guns below.
I sing like a lark.