THE SAD YEARS
MIGRATORY BIRDS
I have listened for the beat
Of slow wings across the sea.
In their strange and dumb retreat
From their foreign liberty.
Come the birds from northern lands,
Where the Russian sleigh-bells chime,
From the hungry desert sands
Of a southern clime.
Come the birds where Eastern air,
Pierced by lofty minaret,
Echoes far the Turkish prayer
Of a God we half forget.
In my garden I have strayed
Through the warm sweet days of Spring,
Bent to each small nest, delayed
By the young birds' fluttering.
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