THE SWALLOW

O swallow, thou art come at last!

The rain is sweet upon the leaves

Now Winter's wrath is overpast,

A wreath of blossom April weaves.

Swift through the air thy light wings pass,

Young willows droop their garlands green

Over the tranquil pool, thy glass

Where silver lilies float serene,

O songless bird! The cuckoo sings,

Filling the valley with his voice;

The larks, on their exultant wings,

In the blue deep of skies rejoice.

There is more music in thy flight,

Through sun or showers, swift and strong,

A creature of the air and light

Thou art, the very soul of song.