Over the fallow fields the birds fly low,
The light from the westering sun gilds their flutt'ring wings,
As ever and on they sail to a place they know
Where the tree-tops sing the song that the West wind brings.

Into the mists they speed at break of day,
Over the hills, the dales, and the little streams;
Out on their errands of song, or of work and play,
Until the twilight returns with its burden of dreams.

Over the fallow fields of life we fly,
Restless and scurrying, on through life we go,
Longing at last for rest in the shadows beyond, 
Just as the birds at sunset turn them home.