Canticle

When all the sky is pure
My soul takes flight,
Serene and sure,
Upward — till at the height
She weighs her wings,
And sings.

But when the heaven is black,
And west-winds sigh,
Beat back, beat back,
She has no strength to try
The drifting rain
Again.

So cheaply baffled! see!
The field is bare —
Behold a tree —
Is't not enough? Sit there,
Thou foolish thing,
And sing!