The wild duck, stringing through the sky,
Are south away.
Their green necks glitter as they fly,
The lake is gray.
So still, so lone, the fowler never heeds.
The wind goes rustle, rustle, through the reeds.
There they find peace to have their own wild souls.
In that still lake,
Only the moonrise or the wind controls
The way they take,
Through the gray reeds, the cocking moor hen's lair,
Rippling the pool, or over leagues of air.
Not thus, not thus are the wild souls of men.
No peace for those
Who step beyond the blindness of the pen
To where skies unclose.
For them the spitting mob, the cross, the crown of thorns
The bull gone mad, the Saviour on his horns.
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