Dave Bonta's "Skylark" is only a few lines long, but it holds a small, surprising tension. The speaker imagines that among larks, joy isn't rare or earned; it's simply the fashion, the normal way of doing things. The phrase "all the rage" is playful, almost chatty, as if the birds were following a trend. Then the tone shifts. The birdsong pierces the heart and leaves it "afire," carrying a kind of news the speaker can barely bring themselves to believe.
That last admission is the heart of the poem. The speaker feels the lark's joy physically, as something sharp and burning, yet can't fully trust the message it brings. The poem doesn't say what the news is, which lets the reader fill it in: perhaps that the world is good, or that gladness is possible. The mood is bright but wistful, a mix of wonder and wary distance. The speaker is moved by joy without quite being able to join it.