A rush of wings through the darkening night,A sweep through the air in the distant height.Far off we hear them, cry answering cry:'Tis the voice of the birds as they southward fly.From sea to sea, as if marking the time,Comes the beat of wings from the long, dark line.O strong, steady wing, with your rhythmic beat,Flying from cold to the summertime heat;O, keen, glancing eye, that can see so far,Do you guide your flight by the northern star?The birds from the North are crossing the moon,And the southland knows they are coming soon.With gladness and freedom and music gone,Another migration is passing on.No long, dark lines o'er the face of the moon;No dip of wings in the southern lagoon.No sweet, low titter, no welcoming song;These are birds of silence that sweep along.Lifeless and stiff, with the death mark on it,This "Fall Migration" on hat and bonnet.And the crowd goes by, with so few to careFor this march of death of the "fowls of the air."—Mary Drummond, in the Chicago Times-Herald.
A rush of wings through the darkening night,A sweep through the air in the distant height.Far off we hear them, cry answering cry:'Tis the voice of the birds as they southward fly.From sea to sea, as if marking the time,Comes the beat of wings from the long, dark line.O strong, steady wing, with your rhythmic beat,Flying from cold to the summertime heat;O, keen, glancing eye, that can see so far,Do you guide your flight by the northern star?The birds from the North are crossing the moon,And the southland knows they are coming soon.With gladness and freedom and music gone,Another migration is passing on.No long, dark lines o'er the face of the moon;No dip of wings in the southern lagoon.No sweet, low titter, no welcoming song;These are birds of silence that sweep along.Lifeless and stiff, with the death mark on it,This "Fall Migration" on hat and bonnet.And the crowd goes by, with so few to careFor this march of death of the "fowls of the air."—Mary Drummond, in the Chicago Times-Herald.
A rush of wings through the darkening night,A sweep through the air in the distant height.
A rush of wings through the darkening night,
A sweep through the air in the distant height.
Far off we hear them, cry answering cry:'Tis the voice of the birds as they southward fly.
Far off we hear them, cry answering cry:
'Tis the voice of the birds as they southward fly.
From sea to sea, as if marking the time,Comes the beat of wings from the long, dark line.
From sea to sea, as if marking the time,
Comes the beat of wings from the long, dark line.
O strong, steady wing, with your rhythmic beat,Flying from cold to the summertime heat;
O strong, steady wing, with your rhythmic beat,
Flying from cold to the summertime heat;
O, keen, glancing eye, that can see so far,Do you guide your flight by the northern star?
O, keen, glancing eye, that can see so far,
Do you guide your flight by the northern star?
The birds from the North are crossing the moon,And the southland knows they are coming soon.
The birds from the North are crossing the moon,
And the southland knows they are coming soon.
With gladness and freedom and music gone,Another migration is passing on.
With gladness and freedom and music gone,
Another migration is passing on.
No long, dark lines o'er the face of the moon;No dip of wings in the southern lagoon.
No long, dark lines o'er the face of the moon;
No dip of wings in the southern lagoon.
No sweet, low titter, no welcoming song;These are birds of silence that sweep along.
No sweet, low titter, no welcoming song;
These are birds of silence that sweep along.
Lifeless and stiff, with the death mark on it,This "Fall Migration" on hat and bonnet.
Lifeless and stiff, with the death mark on it,
This "Fall Migration" on hat and bonnet.
And the crowd goes by, with so few to careFor this march of death of the "fowls of the air."—Mary Drummond, in the Chicago Times-Herald.
And the crowd goes by, with so few to care
For this march of death of the "fowls of the air."
—Mary Drummond, in the Chicago Times-Herald.