New Pinions

I tore the shackles from my feet,
The bandage from my straining eye,
I spread my wings above the street
And soared upon the sky.
I knew the stars for friends, and knew
The sun and moon more happy grew
To see me flying by.

And they, far down below, who moved
With hobbled ankles, groping mad
Among the gutters disapproved
And said that it was sad
A man should want to leave the sty,
To spread his wings abroad and fly
When garbage might be had.

But I in converse with the sun,
Or visiting the moon on high,
Or joining with a star to run
Mad races on the sky,
Can hardly find the time to spare
A thought for the dull gropers there
Who never lift an eye.

The Hill of Vision [1912]