"The butterflies go fluttering by.
How do they know that they can fly?
Had we been only crawling things,
Would we know what to do with wings?
I wonder. Still I think we might,
For we too have our hopes of flight,
Though of a different kind.
Since ours is mainly in our mind.
We have to trust ourselves on less
Than even air or emptiness
On wings more delicately wrought
Than butterflies' -- mere wings
of thought --
But oh, sometimes with what surprise
How exquisitely high we rise!"
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