After 'L'Aquilone' by Giovanni Pascoli (1855-1912) br br Air from another life and time and place, br Pale blue heavenly air is supporting br A white wing beating high against the breeze, br br And yes, it is a kite! As when one afternoon br All of us there trooped out br Among the briar hedges and stripped thorn, br br I take my stand again, halt opposite br Anahorish Hill to scan the blue, br Back in that field to launch our long-tailed comet. br br And now it hovers, tugs, veers, dives askew, br Lifts itself, goes with the wind until br It rises to loud cheers from us below. br br Rises, and my hand is like a spindle br Unspooling, the kite a thin-stemmed flower br Climbing and carrying, carrying farther, higher br br The longing in the breast and planted feet br And gazing face and heart of the kite flier br Until string breaks and—separate, elate— br br The kite takes off, itself alone, a windfall.