After Vain Pretence

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