Classic Poem

Like birds that southward fly
When nights are growing long,
Looping across the evening sky
A silver thread of song;

I hear the spirit wings
Hastening over my head,
And my soul awakes and sings
To the music they have shed.

And though my eyes are wet
To see them fade in sky,
I think I hear their music yet, —
Echoes that will not die.

And in the endless Springs,
When Hope's fair blossoms burn,
Shall I not hear again their wings?
Shall they not all return?