Or tread a pathway that he knows not of.
Skeptic and doubter of the flow’r and tree,
He questions this and that investigates—
Yet drinks the beaker offered by the fates
And leaves unsolved the greater mystery.
THE PASSENGER PIGEONS
Where roam ye now, ye nomads of the air,
The old-time heralds of our old-time Springs?
Once, when we heard the thunder of your wings,
We looked upon the world—and Spring was there.