The NY Literary Magazine

A Distinguished Selection of the Finest Modern Literature

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Ode to a Meadowlark by Rick Puetter

Ode to a meadowlark

Ah, rising sun, kiss morning’s dew
Chill breath of night away thou chase
A sprite from trees there yonder flew
But why flies he away in haste?
As I through meadows lonely pace

Crimson orb, paint sky with red
On fields, again, new day doth break
Yet from love’s loss my heart has bled
And Sorrow, joy of life does take
As o’er these fields my way I make

And I have suffered now so long

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