Homing Swallows

Swift swallows sailing from the Spanish main,

 O rain-birds racing merrily away

From hill-tops parched with heat and sultry plain

 Of wilting plants and fainting flowers, say—

When at the noon-hour from the chapel school

 The children dash and scamper down the dale,

Scornful of teacher's rod and binding rule

 Forever broken and without avail,

Do they still stop beneath the giant tree

 To gather locusts in their childish greed,

And chuckle when they break the pods to see

 The golden powder clustered round the seed?