John Masefield

The Wild Duck

Twilight. Red in the West. 
Dimness. A glow on the wood. 
The teams plod home to rest. 
The wild duck come to glean. 
O souls not understood, 
What a wild cry in the pool; 
What things have the farm ducks seen 
That they cry so—huddle and cry? 

Only the soul that goes. 
Eager. Eager. Flying. 
Over the globe of the moon, 
Over the wood that glows. 
Wings linked. Necks a-strain, 
A rush and a wild crying. 
A cry of the long pain 
In the reeds of a steel lagoon, 
In a land that no man knows.