THE heart soars up like a bird From a nest of care; Up, up to a larger sky, To a softer air. No eye can measure its flight And no hand can tame; It mounts in beauty and light, In music and flame. Of all the changes of Time There is none like this; The heart soars up like a bird At the stroke of bliss. The heart soars up like a bird, But its wings soon tire; Enough of rapture and song, The cloud and the fire! Its look, the look of a king -- Of a slave, its birth, The poor, tired, impotent thing Sinks back to the earth. And the mother spreads her lap, And she lulls its pain: "Oh, thou who sighed for the sun, Art thou mine again?" |