Seldom the soaring rocket-light will rise
Up from the flaming heart and reach the eyes.
Often the song of ecstasy, half-sung,
Will find no footing and fall back in the lung.
But one sweet bird up-warbling from the south
Will never miss the mouth.
The whistler’s way is best, the school-boy’s scheme:
The simple O that pipes away the steam
Lightly escaping from a lonely dream.
From Boundaries
