Voyager on golden air,

Type of all that’s fleet and fair,

Incarnate gem,

Live diadem

Bird-beam of the summer day,—

Whither on your sunny way?

Loveliest of all lovely things,

Roses open to your wings;

Each gentle breast

Would give you rest;

Stay, forget lost Paradise,

Star-bird fallen from happy skies.

Vanished! Earth is not his home;

Onward, onward must he roam

Swift passion-thought,

In rapture wrought,

Issue of the soul’s desire,

Plumed with beauty and with fire.

—John Vance Cheney.