They think they know what we go by.
Do they know what's underneath my skin?
Is happiness what my skin shows in my soul and I?
They think I don't mourn for what I've been!
...
Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.