Songs of the Common Day, and Ave!

An Ode for the Shelley Centenary

by Charles G.D. Roberts


 

THE FLIGHT OF THE GEESE


 

I HEAR the low wind wash the softening snow,
     The low tide loiter down the shore. The night
     Full filled with April forecast, hath no light.
The salt wave on the sedge-flat pulses slow.
Through the hid furrows lisp in murmurous flow
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     The thaw's shy ministers; and hark! The height
     Of heaven grows weird and loud with unseen flight
Of strong hosts prophesying as they go!

High through the drenched and hollow night their wings
     Beat northward hard on winter's trail. The sound

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Of their confused and solemn voices, borne
Athwart the dark to their long Arctic morn,
     Comes with a sanction and an awe profound,
A boding of unknown, foreshadowed things.