With such brief bodies ill-content,
Age after age, we claim our souls;
Insist on everlastingness,
And tease our brows with aureoles.
Walking on swift and certain feet,
We lift our eyes and dream of wings,
And so refuse as ultimate
A country full of broken things.
Perhaps one planet should suffice,
With lads and lovers and fields and friends;
Robins and rosy apple trees,
And every glowing thing that ends—
And yet on my high and holy days:
Under the stars—beside the sea,
Something that’s not my brain nor blood
Whispers the wildest things to me.