The Flight of the Heart

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?”