Vi

Oh, never wings the Sisters chide, Wild upward wings that shine and blur, Nor mourn they winds of eventide That bid the rhythmic garden stir,

And yet this life I cannot still, This winged and restless strength of flight, That swings me down a singing hill Or answers to the calling night,

They curb when I would dance, would dance! By all the graven Saints, it seems Most strange they make for my mischance No grim confessional of dreams!

The flower of Heart’s Desire is sown In fields unknown to waking sight, Down glittering spaces, all alone I whirl the fire of my delight--

Then, on the music’s ebb and flow, Pause as a poising bird is hung, With supple body swaying slow, With parted lips and arms up-flung.