I RUN WITH MY SENSES ALL SWEPT INTO FLIGHT

I run with my senses all swept into flight,
I race like the wind in its play with my pain;
I hasten to yield myself bound to thy sight,
My verdict made fast in the knots of a strain.

I open mine eyes to the meeting of vision,
I feather my wings with the murmur of leaves;
I dip like a brush into fortune’s decision,
And fashion anew what my longing perceives.

I know not if thou shalt behold me alive,
I know not if thou wilt my meaning deny;
Yet these—unto thee have my pilgrims arrive,
That your feet in my hands might so gently now lie.