The birds following the mower, eager to discover what treats are revealed by the shortened grass.
Bird song in the early hours, a portent of the lengthening days, instinctively delivered and shared by these small-feathered creatures, lifts the spirits and we soar with the lark. The smell of the freshly mown grass, carried by the gentle spring breeze, triggers the senses and speaks softly of the changing seasons. The birds following the mower, eager to discover what treats are revealed by the shortened grass. A new chapter starts in the glorious work written by Mother Nature.
Each morning, the alarm springs to life with the tail-end of Radio 4s Farming Today followed by ‘Tweet of the Day’ – and yesterday was the joyful skylark. These ground dwelling birds have entered the lexicon of our language – ‘up with the lark’ and ‘what a lark’ – phrases so common born out of a bird which is increasingly less so. From poets to composers, inspiration is plenty when it comes to the song of the lark, from George Meredith’s poem ‘The Lark Ascending’ to Ralph Vaughan Williams’s composition for violin of the same name – if there was ever a piece of music to define this time of the year, it was this one. The gentle sound of bow on string lifts and inspires and soon the listener too is soaring like the lark.
For more about these wonderful birds, we heartily recommend John Lewis-Stempel’s ‘The Soaring of the Lark’ – as beautifully written as the song is sung.
The Lark Ascending by George Meredith – 1881 (The following is an extract and the full poem can be found on our website HERE)
He rises and begins to round,
He drops the silver chain of sound
Of many links without a break,
In chirrup, whistle, slur and shake,
All intervolv’d and spreading wide,
Like water-dimples down a tide
Where ripple ripple overcurls
And eddy into eddy whirls;
A press of hurried notes that run
So fleet they scarce are more than one,
Yet changingly the trills repeat
And linger ringing while they fleet,
Sweet to the quick o’ the ear, and dear
To her beyond the handmaid ear,
Who sits beside our inner springs,
Too often dry for this he brings,
Which seems the very jet of earth
At sight of sun, her music’s mirth,
As up he wings the spiral stair,
A song of light, and pierces air
With fountain ardor, fountain play,
To reach the shining tops of day,
And drink in everything discern’d
An ecstasy to music turn’d,
Impell’d by what his happy bill
Disperses; drinking, showering still,
Unthinking save that he may give
His voice the outlet, there to live
Renew’d in endless notes of glee,
So thirsty of his voice is he,
For all to hear and all to know
That he is joy, awake, aglow,
The tumult of the heart to hear
Through pureness filter’d crystal-clear,
And know the pleasure sprinkled bright
By simple singing of delight,
Shrill, irreflective, unrestrain’d,
Rapt, ringing, on the jet sustain’d
Without a break, without a fall,
Sweet-silvery, sheer lyrical,
Perennial, quavering up the chord
Like myriad dews of sunny sward
That trembling into fulness shine,
And sparkle dropping argentine;
Such wooing as the ear receives
From zephyr caught in choric leaves
Of aspens when their chattering net
Is flush’d to white with shivers wet;
And such the water-spirit’s chime
On mountain heights in morning’s prime,
Too freshly sweet to seem excess,
Too animate to need a stress;
But wider over many heads
The starry voice ascending spreads,
Awakening, as it waxes thin,
The best in us to him akin;
And every face to watch him rais’d,
Puts on the light of children prais’d,
So rich our human pleasure ripes
When sweetness on sincereness pipes,
Though nought be promis’d from the seas,
But only a soft-ruffling breeze
Sweep glittering on a still content,
Serenity in ravishment.
For singing till his heaven fills,
’T is love of earth that he instils,
And ever winging up and up,
Our valley is his golden cup,
And he the wine which overflows
To lift us with him as he goes:
The woods and brooks, the sheep and kine
He is, the hills, the human line,
The meadows green, the fallows brown,
The dreams of labor in the town;
He sings the sap, the quicken’d veins;
The wedding song of sun and rains
He is, the dance of children, thanks
Of sowers, shout of primrose-banks,
And eye of violets while they breathe;
All these the circling song will wreathe,
And you shall hear the herb and tree,
The better heart of men shall see,
Shall feel celestially, as long
As you crave nothing save the song.
Was never voice of ours could say
Our inmost in the sweetest way,
Like yonder voice aloft, and link
All hearers in the song they drink:
Our wisdom speaks from failing blood,
Our passion is too full in flood,
We want the key of his wild note
Of truthful in a tuneful throat,
The song seraphically free
Of taint of personality,
So pure that it salutes the suns
The voice of one for millions,
In whom the millions rejoice
For giving their one spirit voice.
Yet men have we, whom we revere,
Now names, and men still housing here,
Whose lives, by many a battle-dint
Defaced, and grinding wheels on flint,
Yield substance, though they sing not, sweet
For song our highest heaven to greet:
Whom heavenly singing gives us new,
Enspheres them brilliant in our blue,
From firmest base to farthest leap,
Because their love of Earth is deep,
And they are warriors in accord
With life to serve and pass reward,
So touching purest and so heard
In the brain’s reflex of yon bird;
Wherefore their soul in me, or mine,
Through self-forgetfulness divine,
In them, that song aloft maintains,
To fill the sky and thrill the plains
With showerings drawn from human stores,
As he to silence nearer soars,
Extends the world at wings and dome,
More spacious making more our home,
Till lost on his aërial rings
In light, and then the fancy sings.
The Easter Basket of Coles Signed Editions is bursting with seasonal goodness:- Philip Hensher’s novel ‘To Battersea Park’ is an exploration of recent history and what happens when society is told to stay indoors; we travel with Arthur Dent and draw up to ‘The Restaurant at the End of the Universe’ on the pencil of Chris Riddell; with a plot as mysterious as the landscape, Elly Griffiths is back with ‘The Crossing Places’; the art of writing takes many forms and from the pen of Linton Kwesi Johnson comes a collection of texts in ‘Time Come’ which demonstrates his essential contribution to Britain’s cultural history; some days need a pep talk to get going and who better than Anna Murphy with ‘Destination Fabulous’ to get us soaring like the lark; Silvia Moreno-Garcia composes characters in ‘Untamed Shore’ who are far from what they seem; Max Porter’s writing is brief and bang on point – Shy is wrapped up in other people is the best line I’ve read in a book for ages.
If Coles Books had a middle name, it would be ‘Curious’ – the ability to turn over all of life’s stones to see what’s underneath is the most fabulous gift – and a rummage through a warehouse reveals literary gifts in the form of a few of our Coles Signed Editions from the past – drum machines are domain of New Order’s Stephen Morris: between the posts is the natural habitat of Peter Schmeichel; and Don Letts is – he just is.
A growing number of our Coles Signed Editions for Pre-Order can have dedications, not only will the author sign the book for you, they’ll also add few words specifically for you – how lovely is that? Look out for the Dedication Box on the book page on the website.
The full newsletter with links to books can be found HERE
