For other versions of this work, see Birds of Passage (Longfellow poem).
For works with similar titles, see Birds of Passage.
BIRDS OF PASSAGE.
Black shadows fall From the lindens tall, That lift aloft their massive wall Against the southern sky;
And from the realms Of the shadowy elms A tide-like darkness overwhelms The fields that round us lie.
But the night is fair,And everywhereA warm, soft, vapor fills the air, And distant sounds seem near;
And above, in the lightOf the star-lit night,Swift birds of passage wing their flight Through the dewy atmosphere.
I hear the beatOf their pinions fleet,As from the land of snow and sleet They seek a southern lea.
I hear the cryOf their voices highFalling dreamily through the sky, But their forms I cannot see.
O, say not so!Those sounds that flowIn murmurs of delight and woe Come not from wings of birds.
They are the throngsOf the poet's songs,Murmurs of pleasures, and pains, and wrongs, The sound of winged words.
This is the cryOf souls, that highOn toiling, beating pinions, fly, Seeking a warmer clime.
From their distant flightThrough realms of lightIt falls into our world of night, With the murmuring sound of rhyme.