These are ordinary pleasant things, not the pleasant things of the poet. They barely leave the hall of pleasant things. A true poet, I imagine, is one who captures in the swift net of his imagination the wild pleasantnesses and delights that to me would be flying presences quickly lost to view. But every man must bag what he can in his own net, whether he be rational or poetic. For myself, I have to use my imagination to keep from being snared by too many publicists and professors and persons of political intent. These are invaluable servants of humanity, admirable masters of our mundane institutions. But they fill the mind with -ations. They pave the meadows with concrete; they lose the free swing of pleasant things.

THE AVIATOR

So endlessly the gray-lipped sea

Kept me within his eye,

And lean he licked his hollow flanks

And followed up the sky.

I was the lark whose song was heard

When I was lost to sight,

I was the golden arrow loosed

To pierce the heart of night.

I fled the little earth, I climbed

Above the rising sun,

I met the morning in a blaze

Before my hour was gone.

I ran beyond the rim of space,

Its reins I flung aside,

Laughter was mine and mine was youth

And all my own was pride.

So endlessly the gray-lipped sea

Kept me within his eye,

And lean he licked his hollow flanks

And followed up the sky.

From end to end I knew the way,

I had no doubt or fear;

The minutes were a forfeit paid

To fetch the landfall near.

But all at once my heart I held,

My carol frozen died,

A white cloud laid her cheek to mine

And wove me to her side.

Her icy fingers clasped my flesh,

Her hair drooped in my face,

And up we fell and down we rose

And twisted into space.

So endlessly the gray-lipped sea

Kept me within his eye,

And lean he licked his hollow flanks

And followed up the sky.

Laughter was mine and mine was youth,

I pressed the edge of life,

I kissed the sun and raced the wind,

I found immortal strife.

Out of myself I spent myself,

I lost the mortal share,

My grave is in the ashen plain,

My spirit in the air.

Good-by, sweet pride of man that flew,

Sweet pain of man that bled,

I was the lark that spilled his heart,

The golden arrow sped.

So endlessly the gray-lipped sea

Kept me within his eye,

And lean he licked his hollow flanks

And followed up the sky.

THE END

*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE INVISIBLE CENSOR ***