Poems (Kennedy)/Flying South
FLYING SOUTH
OUT of the ice-cold north they come, The wild geese, flying high;A zigzag streak of glancing gray,An errant cloud blown far astray Athwart the azure sky.
Like fugitives that look not back But take the path they know,They shun the snow's keen-stinging smart,And to the south's warm, waiting heart On silken wings they go.
And there in lush of reedy fens, Fanned by each fragrant breeze,Through days of sun and nights of moonThat blend the year in one sweet June, They take their slothful ease.
They go, those soulless, gabbling ones, And leave us here behindIn patience or in pain, to meetThe bitter bite of driving sleet, The whips of racing wind.
Yet who would follow if they could? The soul grows strong through strife;The bravest hearts ask no surcease—'Tis only cowards, like the geese, Who fly from storms of life.