On the lofty heights of heaven above cloud,
eagle, and star where love scatters
on breezes all its perfume and tenerness,
Lies the land of the poet who in spirit,
not body-has soared from the first,
His muse placed him there far from the world
and its cruelty; A king, whose palace
is the vault of the sky and whose
rule ranges through the aether's heart;
Who wanders in space attended by light,
followed by the brides of his dreams.
His kingdom is founded on air,
and how mighty that foundation laid on eternity.
His throne is a seat of clouds,
whereon night has shed awesome designs.
His crown is an aureole of sliver,
wherein the horizon has set moon by star.
Dusk cloaks him, its bright stars diffusing
essence of camphor above amber-perfumed night.
The pleiades in his land are a scepter
whose pearls morning gathers into its sleeves.
He is a king flying without wings,
ruling by the power of imagination and renow:
O wings of imagination, mightiest of wings,
against whom the winds break their back.
would that I knew if the poet-but for his flesh
and bone-be not a son of this earth,
To leave her if he chose, at will;
for was he not led to her unwillingly?
He is hers, yet not hers, always
a stranger among his mother's sons.