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The lark is with triumphant song Singing the rose-touched clouds among: 'Tis there that lighted song has birth, What hath such hymn to do with earth? Each day doth life again begin, And morning breaks the heart within, Rolling away its clouds of night, Renewing glad the inward light. Many a head that down had lain, Impatient with its twelve hours' pain, And wishing that the bed it prest, Were, as the grave's, a long last rest, Has sprung again at morning's call, Forgiving, or forgetting all; Lighting the weary weight of thought With colours from the day-break brought,