The Wild Geese
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 search our wold.
To them the night unspeakable 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 nigh 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!
’T is we who dread the thunder, and not they.