The Swallows.
With rapid shoot of purple wings,1
Like crescent arrow-heads, they fly,2
And cut the soft blue deeps as if3
To them belonged the endless sky.4
Now high and soaring near the dome5
That spreads in azure down to earth ;6
Now low along the river wide7
That mirrors all the Summer’s mirth ;8
Now skimming over meadows rich9
With waving crowds of golden flowers ;10
Now stooping close, a moment’s rest,11
On lichened rail in orchard bowers.12
Then up and swift again they hunt13
Through deserts of the air and light,14
Where bluest space and yielding breath15
Stretch wide around their utmost flight.16
O who can e’er such gladness know17
As that which fills the swallow’s breast,18
When all the land in morning lies,19
And skies above the sun hath dressed !20
Or who with such a reckless dive21
The sea immense of Heaven would dare,22
And rush on fearless wings to taste23
The glorious freedom of the air.24