The Kite

It was a day     All blue and lifting white,     When I went into the fields with Frank     To fly his kite.     The fields were aged, bare,     Shut between houses everywhere.     All the way there     The wind tugged at the kite to take it     Untethered, toss and break it;     But Frank held fast, and I     Walked with him admiringly;     In his light brave and fine     How bright was mine!     We tailed the kite     While the wind flapped its purple face     And yellow head.     Frank's yellow head     Was scarcely higher, and not so bright.     "Let go!" he cried, and I let go     And watched the kite     Swaying and rising so     That I was rooted to the place,     Watching the kite     Rise into the blue,     Lifting its head against the white     Against the sun,     Against the height     That far-off, farther drew;     Shivering there     In that fine air     As we below shivered with delight     And fear.     There it floated     Among the birds and clouds at ease     Of others all unnoted,     Swimming above the ranked stiff trees.     And I lay down, looking up at the sky,     The clouds and birds that floated     By others still unnoted,     And that swaying kite     Specking the light:     Looking up at the sky,     The birds and clouds that drew     Nearer, leaving the blue,     Stooping, and then brushing me,     With such tenderness touching me     That I had still lain there     In those fields bare,     Forgetting the kite;     For every cloud was now a kite     Streaming with light.