See flocks of birds flying
⁠To far foreign land;
They travel on, sighing,
⁠From Ganthiod's strand;
With all weathers mixeth
⁠Their wailing accord:
"Where land we? where fixeth
⁠Our dwelling Thy word?"
⁠⁠So clamours the feather-clad flock to the Lord.

"We leave now so sadly
⁠The Scandian fell;
There throve we; so gladly
⁠Therein did we dwell;
In bloom-covered trees there
⁠We builded our nest,
The balm-laden breeze there
⁠Safe rocked us to rest.
⁠⁠Now stretches our flight unto regions unguessed.

"With rosy wreath in
⁠Her ringlets of gold,
Sat Midsummer Night in
⁠The forest, sweet-souled.
In sleep ne'er reposed we —
⁠So lovely she seemed —
With rapture just dozed we
⁠Till clear morning beamed
⁠⁠And waked us again from the car where he gleamed.

"Then vaulted groves swinging
⁠O'er hillocks arose,
With pearls to them clinging,
⁠And quivered the rose.
The oak is now shattered,
⁠The roses have fled,
The winds' play is scattered
⁠In storms overhead.
⁠⁠With frost-blossoms white is the May-meadow spread.

"What do we to stay now
⁠In Northland? Its run
Grows straighter each day now,
⁠And dimmer its sun.
What boots us our crying?
⁠We leave but a grave.
In space to be flying
⁠God wings to us gave.
⁠⁠Thus, then, we salute thee, thou deep-roaring wave!"

The birds with this song on
⁠Their journey are whirled.
Till welcomed, ere long, on
⁠A lovelier world;
Where vine-tendrils swaying
⁠To elm-branches cling,
And rivulets playing
⁠Mid myrtle-groves spring.
⁠⁠And woodlands with hope and with happiness ring.

When dire haps arriving
⁠Thy fortunes control,
When storm-winds are driving,
⁠Then weep not, oh soul!
There smiles o'er the wave there
⁠At each bird a strand;
On yon side the grave there
⁠Is also a land
⁠⁠All gilt with eternity's bright morning's brand.

The rose said, "Let but this long rain be past.
⁠And I shall feel my sweetness in the sun,
And pour its fulness into life at last;"
⁠⁠But when the rain was done,
But when dawn sparkled through unclouded air,
⁠⁠She was not there.

The lark said, "Let but winter be away.
⁠And blossoms come, and light, and I will soar,
And lose the earth, and be the voice of day;"
⁠⁠But when the snows were o'er.
But when spring broke in blueness overhead,
⁠⁠The lark was dead.

And myriad roses made the garden glow,
⁠And skylarks carolled all the summer long —
What lack of birds to sing and flowers to blow?
⁠⁠Yet, ah, lost scent, lost song!
Poor empty rose, poor lark that never trilled!
⁠⁠Dead unfulfilled!
 

Couched in the lap of the last concubine —
Satiate of bitter knowledge, weary-wise —
Watching through heedless and half-opened eyes
The rhythmic dancer-groups divide, entwine,
Divide again, in sway and swirl divine —
Where fitful peeps and lingers, peeps and flies
Some unveiled charm voluptuous — so lies
The languid king, and lifts his cup for wine.

And at the call there comes, with creaking gait,
Yet louting low in uncouth courtier grace.
One rich apparell'd in a robe of state,
At sight of whom all, all shrink back a space —
Save the wan king; he, slow, without debate,