Winged Man

    The dawn， a crimson² cataract³， burst through the eastern gates，

    The cliffs were robed in scarlet⁴， the sands were cinnabar，

    Where first two men spread wings for flight and dared the hawk⁵ afar.

    There stands the cunning workman， the crafty⁶ past all praise，

    The man who chained the Minotaur， the man who built the Maze⁷.

    His young son is beside him and the boy's face is a light，

    A light of dawn and wonder and of valor⁸ infinite.

    Their great vans beat the cloven air， like eagles they mount up，

    Motes⁹ in the wine of morning， specks¹⁰ in a crystal cup，

    And lest his wings should melt apace old Daedalus flies low，

    But Icarus beats up， beats up， he goes where lightnings go.

    He cares no more for warnings， he rushes through the sky，

    Braving the crags of ether， daring the gods on high，

    Black 'gainst the crimson sunset， golden o'er cloudy snows，

    With all Adventure in his heart the first winged man arose.

    Dropping gold， dropping gold， where the mists of morning rolled，

    On he kept his way undaunted， though his breaths were stabs of cold，

    Through the mystery of dawning that no mortal may behold¹¹.

    Now he shouts， now he sings in the rapture¹² of his wings，

    And his great heart burns intenser with the strength of his desire，

    As he circles like a swallow， wheeling， flaming， gyre on gyre.

    Gazing straight at the sun， half his pilgrimage is done，

    And he staggers for a moment， hurries on， reels backward， swerves¹³

    In a rain of scattered¹⁴ feathers as he falls in broken curves.

    Icarus， Icarus， though the end is piteous，

    Yet forever， yea， forever we shall see thee rising thus，

    See the first supernal¹⁵ glory， not the ruin hideous¹⁶.

    You were Man， you who ran farther than our eyes can scan，

    Man absurd， gigantic， eager for impossible Romance，

    Overthrowing¹⁷ all Hell's legions with one warped¹⁸ and broken lance.

    On the highest steeps of Space he will have his dwelling-place，

    In those far， terrific regions where the cold comes down like Death

    Gleams the red glint of his pinions¹⁹， smokes the vapor²⁰ of his breath.

    Floating downward， very clear， still the echoes reach the ear

    Of a little tune²¹ he whistles and a little song he sings，

    Mounting， mounting still， triumphant²²， on his torn and broken wings！