Page:The Dial (Volume 75).djvu/542



It's hard to count what an air can do: It cannot buy one a shirt or shoe:

It cannot bind a neat nest; find things For leaving the earth on floating wings:

Nothing of twigs in it, nothing of roots; But something of rivers, a little of flutes

That I've heard rippling a bodiless tune That caught me up in a small balloon,

And took me high without writing a check;