Not quite as simple as it reads.
The lark he penned a wistful note
towards the dawning of the day,
west drawn winds took up the call
and stole his voice away.
Uncaring there those western winds,
to punish was their aim
imprison in their silent walls
bleed dry all sweet refrain.
The lark, his heart yet troubled still,
grew stronger in his pain,
turned to face a different sky
and learned to sing again.