The Swallow 
The river runs, a steel-blue thread, 
A cutting east wind storms o’erhead ; 
Nor bird life ’midst the coppice stirs, 
Nor wandering voices haunt the firs ; 
Next mom we pass our customed nook, 
The willows by the plank-bridged brook, 
And there, while April’s soft breath sighs. 
The sweetest bird of April flies ! 
At length bright summer fades away, 
Untimely dies the gloomy day; 
Spring’s airy minstrels all have fled. 
The year’s delight lies cold and dead 
A frosty night, and on my roof 
The mournful swallow sits aloof; 
At nightfall, straight to stranger skies 
The sweetest bird of April flies! 
