A SONG OF THOUGHT
O, the ships have sails for the swelling gales,
The falcon flies in the wake of the wind,
In the speed of the steed of the Bedouin breed
The blood leaps high to the hoof-beats’ lead,
As the leagues are left behind.
But what care I
For the birds that fly,
Or all the vessels that sail the sea;
The blasts that blow
Till the trees bend low,
Or the barbs of Araby!
I spring to birth with the dust of earth,
Yet span the heaven from pole to pole;
Or flashing far as the farthermost star,
I know no barrier, bound nor bar
To hold from my boldest goal.
The storm’s red spark
As it cleaves the dark,
With my viewless wings it can not keep pace;
More fleet than light
My measureless flight
To the starless ends of space!