Now in the soft spring midnight <br />There's rush of wings and whirr, <br />Birds flying softly, swiftly; <br />The night's a-flutter, a-stir. <br /> <br />Home by the bitter seas, <br />They have sped home together. <br />So glad to be coming home <br />To the grey hills, the grey weather. <br /> <br />Calling and calling softly <br />One lights by the window-pane: <br />The rook, weary with building, <br />Turns to his sleep again. <br /> <br />Ere ever the moor-hens wake <br />And the wild duck come in, <br />The birds are about the house <br />With a long call and thin. <br /> <br />They have wakened the wood-pigeon <br />To make her plaintive moan, <br />The wood-pigeon lamenting <br />For sorrows not her own. <br /> <br />Oh, they are never birds, <br />But souls of men on the wind, <br />Seeking the mother's breast, <br />The heart that is soft and kind. <br /> <br />Souls of the Irish dead, <br />Flown from the fields of slaughter, <br />Home to the mother's arms <br />Over the wild grey water.<br /><br />Katharine Tynan<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/wings-in-the-night/
