When scholars were magicians,
They learned to sing
And then began to fly, for it was Spring then,
And even the intelligent were chockful of passions.
So, at night when they were high over the town or wood,
They left behind
The need to be both diligent and good
And surveyed the land below as if they were the stars and planets that they used to track,
Exulting to themselves and to the wind,
‘That’s it, I’m never going back’,
For it was Spring then and the air
Was fresh and smelt
Of lilac and manure, and everyone was young
And very open minded. What did they care
For desks and quills and inkpots or discovering the fact
That, strictly speaking,
None of this was true or that the act
Of flight is for the birds if every apple could be proved to be a weightless blossom?
The bees were out and nobody was seeking
To stick a rainbow in a prism.
