High Tide

I could rush out and follow a gipsy wagon,

And marry a gipsy man, or maybe a king;

On such a day I could do something reckless,

Or something brave, or wild, or anything.

White clouds are running over a windy heaven,

And I could follow their shadows on the hills;

Light as a cloud myself, swift as a shadow,

Free of my body and its earth-born ills.

I could fling out into the four winds of heaven;

Being all thought, electric, without breath;

I could be swept into the Fourth Dimension

On this high tide from oceans beyond death.