The Wild Geese

Poem by Guy De Maupassant Period 19th century

All is mute, the bird no longer flings its cries.
The dreary plain lies white afar beneath the gray sky.
Alone, the great black ravens, seeking out their prey,
Search the snow with their beaks and stain its pallor.

Then on the horizon a clamor rises;
It approaches, it comes, it is the tribe of geese.
Like a dart let fly, all of them, necks outstretched,
Going ever faster, in their frantic flight,
They pass, whipping the wind with their whistling wing.

The guide who leads these pilgrims of the air
Beyond the oceans, the woods and the deserts,
As if to spur their pace too slow,
From moment to moment flings his piercing cry.

Like a double ribbon the caravan undulates,
Makes a strange sound, and through the sky unfolds
Its great winged triangle that widens as it goes.

But their captive brothers scattered on the plain,
Numbed by the cold, walk on gravely.
A child in rags, whistling, drives them along,
Like heavy vessels swaying slowly.
They hear the cry of the tribe passing by,
They raise their heads; and watching flee
The free travelers across space,
The captives suddenly rise to leave.
They wave in vain their powerless wings,
And, standing on their feet, feel confusedly,
At that wandering call, rising and growing
Primeval freedom deep in their sleeping hearts,
The fever for space and for warm shores.
In the fields full of snow they run terrified,
And casting through the sky despairing cries
They answer for a long time their wild brothers.

Guy de Maupassant

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