The Flight of the Geese

Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts (1860–1943)

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

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

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.