No soaring eagle could be more at ease,
Though he should glide, undaunted, (through the sky)
On gentle winds which push mere birds or bees
To know e'en what compels my heart to sigh.
I scarce could know a gentler, kinder bliss
Than that of being with outstanding peers,
Unless I incidentally should kiss
The one to whom but knowing so endears.
Hence I declare what sages have declared:
'Tis good for souls to have some special place
To which they'd go, in which was often shared
That art of beauty of poetic grace.
No careless eagle, soaring in his prime,
Could know my joy which seems unbound by time.