Classic Poem

The air paths go unto homes we do not know,
But we see that the birds fly straight;
They have errands where the bow
Gilds the storm and in the glow
That is rosy at the sunset's gate:
As the dove flies,
As the crow flies,
At the end of everywhere is a mate.

The soul's paths go to a home they cannot show,
But not to a home of hate;
As the stag to seek his doe,
As the arrow from the bow,
The errand of the soul is straight:
As the dove flies,
As the crow flies,
Darts the soul that is homesick to its mate.

The seed paths go to a home far down below,
But we know that the sprouts rise straight
To the light that is aglow,
To the air that kindles so,
To the heaven of the recreate:
As the dove flies,
As the crow flies,
The errand of the flower is to mate.

The rain paths go to the caves of frost and snow,
But we see that the springs flow straight
To the fields the farmers mow,
To the cattle lowing low,
To the rivers that are wide and great:
As the dove flies,
As the crow flies,
The spirits in the elements must mate.

The world's paths go upon arcs so calm and slow,
That we know not we course like fate,
But the stars in groups that go
Sired the planets twinkling low,
And the universes pair in state:
As the dove flies,
As the crow flies,
Flash the lights, never meeting, to their mate.

Forever, loving man! drive on thy caravan!
Thou canst not be selfish and great;
For what is thy little span
To the universal plan,
And the faith of the congregate?
As the dove flies,
As the crow flies,
Immortality seek in thy mate.