Piercing through the twilight I hear the brave, sharp cry
Of wild geese winging southward, dark against the sky,
Hasting from the northland wrapped in silent snow
Across the world to some far isle where men shall never go.
Lonely in the moonlight I hear the haunting song
Of a great wind driving westward, blowing clean and strong,
Telling of the wide ways it has traveled without rest,
Faring on unwearied in its old, unending quest.
Nor can I cease from roving, for urgent in my heart
Bird’s cry and wind’s song call to me, “Depart!”
Out of dreams and mystery the ancient charm is spun,
And I am made wander until my life is done.
Edith E. King-Fisher