Lines Composed at Thirty Thousand Feet

I fly, and learn the meaning of delight:

to taste rich wonder, edged with tang of dread

as hills fold down to flatness from this height.

Proud cities shrink to weaves of silver thread

on brown brocade of fields and woods outspread

across the bowed horizon, our sphere’s rim.

This is the lowest brink of heaven I tread,

the highest fringe of air through which I skim,

where in the night-blue noon the stars prick dim

enough to fool my eyes, one moment there,

next fading behind sun flares as I swim

where Icarus’ wake still scars the highest air.

How can man rise so lightly, without fear,

through skies laid bare to the celestial sphere?