Amorphous is the mind; its quality
Is in its fibre, not its form;
If it desire to fly it puts on wings,
Awkwardly, not like a bird
At first (though later); the rustle of a thing half-heard
Can twist it as iron at times is twisted by a wind-storm or word
Can pummel it for hours yet leave it like a leaf on a still day
But a man’s habit clings
And he will wear tomorrow what today he wears.
The mind is happy in the air, happy to be up there with
Learning feathers, but the man loathes it.
The mind cries “Up! Oh, up! Oh, let me try to fly!
Look! I can lift you!” but he smothers its cry;
Out of thrift, and fear of next year’s feathers, he clothes it in
last year’s things
And tries his best to button across a keel-shaped breast a coat
knobbed out by new wings.
-Edna St. Vincent Millay