At five years old, among other things, I used to write poems which my mother thoroughly and wholeheartedly enjoyed. There was one about larks which she still preserves, along with the locks of my pale childish hair, the faded photographs, the precocious drawings of railway trains and all the other relics of the period.
Oh lark, how you do fly Right up into the sky. How loud he sings And quickly wags his wings. The sun does shine, The weather is fine. Father says, Hark, Do you hear the lark?
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