O Moon of Falling Leaf, The wild goose cries to you! O Moon of icy star, The plover flies by you! O Moon of glimmering stream, The myriad migrants, through the lengthening night, When you ride bright, Scream greeting as they skim across your disk In endless line! All night, all night, With level, strong-winged flight, Guided by river's gleam, Beckoned by lakes that shine, Crying their plaintive cry, They fly! Rooted to earth, men stir To that strange urge, To that faint, sucking sigh, Miles high. O Moon of Falling Leaf and frosty star, and silver stream, God does not mock desire With fatuous fire; His is the dream, He is the Crier Across the sky— Men fly! |