THE cold limbs of the air Brush by me on the hill, Climb to the utmost crag, Leap out, then all is still. Ah, but what high intent In the cold will of wind; What sceptre would it grasp To leave these dreams behind! Trail of celestial things: White centaurs, winged in flight, Through the fired heart sweep on, A hurricane of light. I have no plumes for air: Earth hugs to it my bones. Leave me, O sky-born powers, Brother to grass and stones. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...GERANIUMS by WILFRID WILSON GIBSON TO THE CUCKOO (1) by WILLIAM WORDSWORTH PSALM 42. QUEMADMODUM by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE SHEEP AT MOUNTAIN PASTURE by MARGARET CARROLL BRADY SIMPKIN by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES IF LIFE BE BITTER by RHYS CARPENTER SATURNINUS by KATHERINE ELEANOR CONWAY GONDIBERT; AN HEROIC POEM: BOOK 3, CANTO 7; TO MR. COTTON by WILLIAM DAVENANT |