Edna St. Vincent Millay

Sonnet 70

Fatal Interview
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 Whereup 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 wingéd helmet and my wingéd 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.