I often sit and wish that I
Could be a kite up in the sky,
And ride upon the breeze, and go
Whatever way it chanced to blow.
Then I could look beyond the town,
And see the river winding down,
And follow all the ships that sail
Like me before the merry gale,
Until at last with them I came
To some place with a foreign name.
Written by Frank Dempster Sherman (1860-1916)
Thanks and Acknowledgements
Thanks to Barbara Huet for pointing out this rhyme!