a sense of wings—
soft downy wings and fair—
great wings that whistle as they sweep
along the still gulfs—empty, deep—
of thin blue air.
doves’ wings that follow,
doves’ wings that fold,
doves’ wings that flutter down
to nestle in your hold.
doves’ wings that settle,
doves’ wings that rest,
doves’ wings that brood so warm
above the little nest.
larks’ wings that rise and rise,
climbing the rosy skies—
fold and drop down
to birdlings brown.
light wings of wood-birds, that one scarce believes
moved in the leaves.
the quick, shy flight
of wings that flee in fright—
a start as swift as light—
only the shaken air
to tell that wings were there.
broad wings that beat for many days
above the land wastes and the water ways;
beating steadily on and on,
through dark and cold,
through storms untold,
till the far sun and summer land is won.
and wings—
wings that unfold
with such wide sweep before your would-be hold—
such glittering sweep of whiteness—sun on snow—
such mighty plumes—strong-ribbed, strong-webbed—strong-knit to go
from earth to heaven!
hear the air flow back
in their wide track!
feel the sweet wind these wings displace
beat on your face!
see the great arc of light like rising rockets trail
they leave in leaving—
they avail—
these wings—for flight!
