Flight Of The Spirit

Whither, oh! whither wilt thou wing thy way?

What solemn region first upon thy sight

Shall break, unveiled for terror or delight?

What hosts, magnificent in dread array,

My spirit! when thy prison-house of clay

After long strife is rent? Fond, fruitless quest!

The unfledged bird, within his narrow nest,

Sees but a few green branches oer him play,

And through their parting leaves, by fits revealed,

A glimpse of summer sky; nor knows the field

Wherein his dormant powers must yet be tried.

Thou art that bird!—of what beyond thee lies

Far in the untracked immeasurable skies

Knowing but this—that thou shalt find thy guide!