When I am weary for delight and spent,
Even as a bird that tries too long its wings
Will nest awhile amid the gra** and sings,
So I drop downward from the wonderment
Of timelessness and space, in which were blent
The wind, the sunshine and the wanderings
Of all the planets--to the little things
That are my gra** and flowers and am content.
Or if in flight my wings should beat so far
From the kind gra** that is so cool and deep
That it must poise among the winds on high--
Yet will I sing to thee from star to star,
Piercing thy sunshine, and will always keep
A song for thee amid the farthest sky.