Bright
in the air of the heights
From
the golden spires of the city
Came
the silken spoken voice
Of
the sweet winds of the world
Did
you not want our flowers
For
your hair
Ribbons
to tie it with
And
a crown to wear?
Did
you not wish for our feathers
For
your feet
Glory
to gild them with
And
fame for such a flight?
What
can I say, but the truth?
No,
I have joy enough or a foregoing
Strength
to own nothing
A
hid wealth for my feasting
My
flowers are the blooms of the dark
They
are all taken
What
were your picked flowers for
If
not for a beauty that faded?
My
feathers are the wings of the morning
They
are all taken
What
were your fallen feathers for
If
not for a flight that failed?
What
is fame, but a blind shadow
To
appease and build another
What
is a crown, but a dead wreath
To
tell what might have been
Self-glorying
was the world’s
Enmeshed
in its every mean fibre
Trampled
under feet of clay
The
fragile dew of day
*
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