The Passenger Pigeons

Where roam ye now, ye nomads of the air, The old-time heralds of our old-time Springs? Once, when we heard the thunder of your wings, We looked upon the world--and Spring was there.

One time your armies swept across the sky, Your feathered millions in a mighty march Filling with life and music all the arch Where now a lonely swallow flutters by.

Where roam ye now, ye nomads of the air? In what far land? What undiscovered place? Ye may have found the refuge of the race That mortals visit but in dream and prayer.

Perhaps in some blest land ye wing your flight, Now undisturbed by murder and by greed, And there await the coming of the freed Who shall emerge, like ye, from earth and night.