Classic Poem

Gray shadows roughen all the sea,
The birds are met on rock and tree,
But no debate of love or hate
Doth sway this busy company.

Ah, what impatient pulses beat
In those poised wings, what sudden heat
To quit the isle whose April smile
The blithe nest-builders found so sweet!

The silent, dark, unswerving line,
Obedient to the impulse fine,
Begins its flight at shut of night
Across the leagues of bitter brine.

Before them lie the gardens fair
With balm and bloom and purple air.
They leave behind the boding wind,
The frosted fields, the branches bare.

Frail lovers of the languid rose,
A nobler joy yon raven knows,
That dares abide the wintry tide
And revel in the blinding snows.

Thou, too, O soul, disdain to flee
Where siren ease would beckon thee.
In stress and strain and battle-pain,
Win thou thy peace by victory.