The Wish

Not to the hills where cedars move
Their cloudy head, not to the grove
Of myrtles in th' Elysian shade,
Nor Tempe which the poets made;
Not on the spicy mountains play;
Or travel to Arabia:
I aim not at the careful Throne,
Which Fortune's darlings sit upon;
No, no, the best this fickle world can give,
Has but a little, little time to live.

But let me soar, O let me fly
Beyond poor Earth's benighted eye,
Beyond the pitch swift eagles tower,
Above the reach of human power;
Above the stars, above the way,
Whence Phoebus darts his piercing ray.
O let me tread those Courts that are,
So bright, so pure, so blest, so fair,
As neither thou nor I must ever know
On Earth--'tis thither, thither would I go.