Down upon you I sink, and leave myself, My vain, frail self, and find repose on you, Prime Force, whether amassed through myriad years From dear accretions of dead ancestry, Or ever welling from the source of things In undulation vast and unperceived, Down upon you I sink and lose myself!
My child that shouts and races on the sand Your cry restores me. Have I been with Pan, Kissing the hoofs of his goat-majesty? You come, no granite of the nether earth, Bright sea-flower rather, shining foam that flies, Yet sweet as blossom of our inland fields.
Fly, Year, not backward down blind gulfs of night, Thick with the swarm of miscreated things: Forth, flying year, through calms and broader light, Clear-eyed, strong-bosom’d year, on strenuous wings; Bearing a song more high-intoned, more holy Than the wild Swan’s melodious melancholy, More rapturous than the atom lark outflings.
I follow on slow foot and unsubdued: Have I not heard thy cry across the wind? Not seen thee, Slayer of the serpent brood,-- Error, and doubt, and death, and anguish blind? I follow, I shall know thee by thy plumes Flame-tipped, when on that morn of conquered tombs, I praise amidst my years the doom assigned.
The tender Sorrows of the twilight leave me, And shall I want the fanning of smooth wings? Shall I not miss sweet sorrows? Will it grieve me To hear no cooing from soft dove-like things?
Let Evening hear them! O wide Dawn uprisen, Know me all thine; and ye, whose level flight Has pierced the drear hours and the cloudy prison, Cry for the pathless spaces and the light!
Wide fields of air left luminous, Though now the uplands comprehend How the sun’s loss is ultimate: The silence grows; but still to us From yon air-winnowing breasts elate The tiny shrieks of glee descend.
Deft wings, each moment is resigned Some touch of day, some pulse of light, While yet in poised, delicious curve, Ecstatic doublings down the wind, Light dash and dip and sidelong swerve, You try each dainty trick of flight.
Will not your airy glee relent At all? The aimless frolic cease? Know ye no touch of quelling pain, Nor joy’s more strict admonishment, No tender awe at day-light’s wane, Ye slaves of delicate caprice?
Hush, once again that cry intense! High-venturing spirits have your will! Urge the last freak, prolong your glee, Keen voyagers, while still the immense Sea-spaces haunt your memory, With zests and pangs ineffable.