{8 
OUR FRIENDS, THE BIRDS. 
And soon that toil shall end; 
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest 
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend 
Soon o’e1 thy sheltered nest. 
Thou’rt gone; the abyss of heaven 
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet in my heart 
Deeply hath sunk the lesson thou hast given, 
And shall not soon depart. 
He, who, from zone to zone, 
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flighc, 
In the long way that I must tread alone 
Will lead my steps aright. 
THE WILD GEESE. 
BY JAMES HERBERT MORSE. 
The wild geese flying in the night behold 
Our sunken towns lie underneath a sea 
Which buoys them on its billows. Liberty 
They have, but such as those frail barques of old 
That crossed unsounded mains to reach our wold, 
To them the night unspeakably is free; 
They have the moon and stars for company, 
To them no foe but the remorseless cold, 
And froth of polar currents darting past, 
That have been near the world’s end lair of storms; 
Enormous billows float their fragile forms. 
Yes, those frail beings tossing on the vast 
Of wild revolving winds, feel no dismay 
’Tis we who dread the thunder, and not they. 
