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 care

For this march of death of the "fowls of the air."