When heavy on my tired mind The world, and worldly things, do weigh, And some sweet solace I would find, Into the sky I love to stray, And, all alone, to wander round In lone seclusion from the ground. Ah! Then what solitude is mine— From grovelling mankind aloof! Their road is but a thin-drawn line: Their busy house a scarce-seen roof. That little stain of red and brown They boast about!—It is their town! How small their petty quarrels seem! Poor, crawling multitudes below; Which, like the ants, in feverish stream From place to place move to and fro! Like ants they work: like ants they fight, Assuming blindly they are right. Soon their existence I forget, In joy that on these flashing wings I cleave the skies—O! let them fret— Now know I why the skylark sings Untrammelled in the boundless air— For mine it is his bliss to share! Now do I mount a billowy cloud, Now do I sail low o'er a hill, And with a seagull's skill endowed Circle, and wheel, and drop at will— Above the villages asleep, Above the valleys, shadowed deep, Above the water-meadows green Whose streams, which intermingled flow, Like silver lattice-work are seen A-gleam upon the plain below— Above the woods, whose naked trees Move new-born buds upon the breeze. And far away above the haze I see white mountain-summits rise, Whose snow with sunlight is ablaze And shines against the distant skies. Such thoughts those towering ranges bring That I float on a-wondering! So do I love to travel on Through lonely skies, myself alone; For then the feverish fret is gone Which on this earth I oft have known. Kind is the God who lets me fly In sweet seclusion through the sky! France, 1917.