What Thing is this That

What thing is this that, built of salt and lime

And such dry motes as in the sunbeam show, / Has power upon me that do daily climb

The dustless air? -for whom those peaks of snow

Where up the lungs of man with borrowed breath

Go labouring to a doom I may not feel, / Are but a pearled and roseate plain beneath

My winged helmet and my winged heel.

What sweet emotions neither foe nor friend

Are these that clog my flight? what thing is this

That hastening headlong to a dusty end

Dare turn upon me these proud eyes of bliss? Up, up, my feathers! -ere I lay you by

To journey barefoot with a mortal joy.