Aloft in the frigid lanes they soar,
High over dormant farm and city’s roar:
Their tireless pinions wrestle with the breeze
That wails athwart the solemn, leafless trees.
Above the brooks asleep ’neath crystal shrouds,
And o’er white winter’s mantle from the clouds,
Swift pigeons wheel and spiral t’wards the sun,
Exultant in new triumphs daily won.
Atoms these—of pulsating life on wing,
Each flouts the sordid earth and ether’s sting:
Unconsciously, they realize a Plan
Which mortals match with faulty ships of Man.