I fly on the wings of thought, myself,
While the wind shrieks behind me “Wait!”
For he never can fly as fast as thought,
And, he howls because he thinks he ought;—
But here I am at the gate.
No narrow, smothering walls for me,
Nor life shut in from the sky,
When Make-Believe is all outdoors,
With beautiful grass instead of floors,
And to reach it one needs but try.