“What is called in her rises from the ground and is found in her body, what she is given is secret even from her.” —David Whyte
In 1884, a young peasant woman harvesting grain somewhere in the province of Artois, France, paused along a dirt path and looked up suddenly, captivated by the song of a lark. In his poem, “The Song of the Lark,” David Whyte describes the moment: “The song begins and the eyes are lifted / but the sickle points toward the ground / its downward curve forgotten in the song she hears . . . the mouth opens / and her bare feet on the earth have stopped.”
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