Classic Poem

The wold is drear and the sedges sere,
And gray is the autumn sky,
And sorrows roll through my riven soul
As lonely I sit and sigh
" Good-by "
To the goose-birds as they fly.

With his weird wishbone to the temperate zone
Came the goose-bird in the spring;
And he built his nest in the glorious west,
And sat on a snag to sing,
Sweet thing!
Or flap his beautiful wing.

But the boom of the blast has come at last
To the goose-bird on the lea,
And the succulent thing, with shivering wing,
Flies down to a southern sea.
Ah me,
That such separation should be!

But it's always so in this world of woe:
The things that gladden our eye
Are the surest to go to the bugs, and so
We can only wearily sigh
" Good-by "
To the goose-birds as they fly.