Song of the Open Road I rove, a chosen creature, through fields of wheat, And skies where the lurid sun emerges bold. Oh, clouds of white, my harvest you’ll keep, Let the lands spread wide! The soft sounds emerge from grass beaten down By unwieldy hands tearing into meridian light. Here where sprits escape the hollow eye And wildfowl sing their evening song to the gloaming, Light me to the grasses, and sky-stretch my soul! As I sip the nectar of perfect leaving, Unbent I shall journey toward blue waves and green.

—My heart, released, flies forth!

• Ezra Pound