 | Idyls and pastorals |  |
37
WILD DUCKS.
I lift my voice to the breeze,
A harsh and broken call,
To mix with the roar of the seas
And the rush of the waterfall;
With noises stormy and rude
I love to mingle my cry,
In the heart of the solitude
Where nothing human is nigh.
A harsh and broken call,
To mix with the roar of the seas
And the rush of the waterfall;
With noises stormy and rude
I love to mingle my cry,
In the heart of the solitude
Where nothing human is nigh.
When the tempest lashes the wood,
And over the marshland sings,
Then gathers my callow brood
'Neath my mate's protecting wings;
But I, from the edge of the crag,
Launch out on the sweeping gale,
With pinions that never flag,
And a courage that does not quail
And over the marshland sings,
Then gathers my callow brood
'Neath my mate's protecting wings;
38
Launch out on the sweeping gale,
With pinions that never flag,
And a courage that does not quail
I ride on the heaving brine
That breaks into seething foam,
For the earth and the air are mine,
And the water my buoyant home.
A joyful life I lead,
And I envy no one's lot,
But for one boon I plead—
O mortal, molest me not!
That breaks into seething foam,
For the earth and the air are mine,
And the water my buoyant home.
A joyful life I lead,
And I envy no one's lot,
But for one boon I plead—
O mortal, molest me not!
| Idyls and pastorals | |