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88 Flinging the salt from their wings, and despair from their hearts, They arise on the breast of the storm with a cry and are gone. When will you come home, wild geese, with your thousand strong? (The wolf-dog loud in the silence of night howls on.) Not the fierce wind can stay your return or tumultuous sea, Nor the freedom France gives to your feet on her luxuriant shore. No smiles for your love like the tears of your sorrowing land. Only Death in his reaping could make you return no more. White birds, white birds, I dream of that glad homecoming; Though human eyes could not mark your silent flight, Women lie face down with clenched hands in the sea. (Thrice the banshee cries in the stormy night.)