Classic Poem

I ' VE never climbed mountains,
Nor sailed across the sea,
I don't know where Llassa is,
Nor Seoul nor Araby;
But every year the wild geese,
With distance on their wings,
Come dropping into Doole Lake
And tell me many things.

They don't speak in Latin,
And Greek is not their tongue.
Their lore is not in any book,
It can't be said or sung.
But when I see them sink down
From star-expectant skies,
I learn what would even make
The fool's heart wise.

They 've been where I 'll never go,
They 'll go as far again.
Yet, though I 'm but a man, it is
Their wings alone I ken.
For I can see, at Doole Lake,
More than worlds go by
In just a flock of wild geese
That pass along the sky.