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!