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Songs
of the Common Day, and Ave!
An
Ode for the Shelley Centenary
by
Charles G.D. Roberts
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THE
FLIGHT OF THE GEESE
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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
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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 |
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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. |
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