When the grape of the night is pressed
Nearly dry, and the trains rest
And roads are empty and the moon low,
Out of my body's breast I go,
Insecure, as a child escaped,
Animula flittering in the night unshaped;
Lacking wings; but I leap so high
It wants but a little more to fly.
Down I swoop with a seven-league stride
From church's spire to river side,
There scarce touching the ground, and then
Up to the elm-tree tops again;
Rising higher each leap and still
Sinking lower again, until
Lured to venture at least too much
I dream of flying indeed--no touch
Of earth between; then, holding breath
I poise on a perilous edge. But faith
All goes out of my soul--too late!
Air is emptiness: man has weight.
Unsupported I drop like lead
To where my body awakes in bed
Screaming-scared--and yet glad, as one
Who, after vain pretence, has done
with keeping company too great
For his lean purse and low estate.
- C.S. Lewis