Arthur Stringer’s speaker wakes to an April morning already giddy with vitality. Sunlight and spring air feel intoxicating, as if he has drunk some vast, immortal wine. He laughs, wanders, and lifts his face to the light with a sense of almost godlike power. In this heightened state, he imagines he could knock Time from its throne or fill the quiet morning sky with music and laughter.
The mood is ecstatic and expansive, even a little delirious. His joy grows so large that it turns cosmic: he believes that if he could only find the right words, his song would be so immense that all the lonely stars tracing their paths through the night would seem no bigger than a hem on its robe. The core feeling is being intensely, almost unbearably alive.