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.