My grip upon the silken cord grows weak
I long as much to linger as to flee
(as if my ruined wings would carry me)
Have I been here a moment or a week?
The cordial poison courses through my limbs
I think it was a mighty dram to drink-
Woeful wound, but worth it, now, I think,
and sweeter finally than my wildest dreams.
How wide the web extends itself about!
each cable seeming fastened to a star
as one by one my tiny lamps go out
like the candles of a candelabra.
How sweet to sink in spite of all intention
into the shivering ecstasy of extinction.
Morgan Michaels's Other Poems
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Comments about this poem (Fly by Morgan Michaels )
Alfred Lord Tennyson
(6 August 1809 – 6 October 1892)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
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(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
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(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
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