  The wild birds among the reeds Cry, exult and stretch their wings. Out of the sky they drift And sink to the water's rushes. But the wild birds beat their wings and cry To the newcomer out of the sky! Is he a stranger, this wild bird out of the sky? Or do they cry to him because of remembered places And remembered days Spent together In the north-land, or the south-land? Is this the ecstasy of renewal, Or the ecstasy of beginning? For the wild bird touches his bill Against a mate; He brushes her wing with his wing; He quivers with delight For the cool sky of blue, And the touch of her wing! The wild birds fly up from the reeds of the water, Some for the south, Some for the north. They are gone— Lost in the sky! In what water do these mates of a morning Exult on the morrow? What wild birds will cry to them as they sink Out of an unknown sky? To whose cry will she quiver Through her burnished wings to-morrow, In the north-land, In the south-land, Far away? |
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