How fleeting is the flight of birds
Compared to mine, on made-up words!
Vast verbal ventures fly me high
Above their wings—above their sky—
Above the reach of angels’ thought,
So lofty are the words I’ve got.
Proliferation I can send
Beyond the universe’s end,
Where birds and angels, so it seems,
Fly only on the wings of dreams,
And I, the master of the words,
Master the dreams, the angels, birds,
The flimsy few whose flight intends
To float to those far-reaching ends
Where language takes me—but I know
Linguistic lands where they can’t go,
Because they lack these fragrant words,
Unknown to angels, dreams, and birds,
And all whose wings are not enough
To keep up with such heady stuff.
Wafting aloft, flaring with fun,
I leap the moon, the stars, the sun,
The past, the present, times not yet,
The known and unknown, and I get
No weariness from flying here
Above the mental atmosphere,
But elevated past all birds,
I’m wild with joy on wings of words!