To whirl me higher than heaven and all
Its stars, till there is nothing else
But a great glitter of air, and song
Out of the mouths of a wheeling throng
Which has found, and chants like a triumph-call,
The Miracle of miracles.
Only, a little dead-gold feather
Came drooping once through the misty weather
Into my hands, all frayed and fine;
And underneath my breast as it clings