The Kite
by Elizabeth Chambless
I took my kite and climbed a hill,
The glory of it holds me still.
It lifted swiftly with the breeze;
It hung, high up among the trees.
It tugged and fought to soar away,
Yet I, as fiercely, bade it stay.
Just so, my thoughts, against my will
are prone to flutter on a hill.
They soar away and leave me there;
Hands fail to hold them from the air.
Then, after flight, I draw them down
And wander slowly back to town.
If I would curb my thoughts with will
Then I must keep them off the hill.
Second Prize in Local Contest
1935 Clinic
