Chimney Swallows

I love thee much;

For well thou managest that life of thine,
While I-oh, ask not what I do with mine!
Would I were such!

1575

Jane Welsh Carlyle [1801-1866]

CHIMNEY SWALLOWS

I SLEPT in an old homestead by the sea:
And in their chimney nest,

At night the swallows told home-lore to me,
As to a friendly guest.

A liquid twitter, low, confiding, glad,
From many glossy throats,

Was all the voice; and yet its accents had

A poem's golden notes.

Quaint legends of the fireside and the shore,

And sounds of festal cheer,

And tones of those whose tasks of love are o'er,
Were breathed into mine ear;

And wondrous lyrics, felt but never sung,

The heart's melodious bloom;

And histories, whose perfumes long have clung
About each hallowed room.

I heard the dream of lovers, as they found

At last their hour of bliss,

And fear and pain and long suspense were drowned

In one heart-healing kiss.

I heard the lullaby of babes, that grew

To sons and daughters fair;

And childhood's angels, singing as they flew,

And sobs of secret prayer.

I heard the voyagers who seemed to sail
Into the sapphire sky,

And sad, weird voices in the autumn gale,
As the swift ships went by;

And sighs suppressed and converse soft and low
About the sufferer's bed,

And what is uttered when the stricken know

That the dear one is dead;

And steps of those who, in the Sabbath light,

Muse with transfigured face;

And hot lips pressing, through the long, dark night, The pillow's empty place;

And fervent greetings of old friends, whose path

In youth had gone apart,

But to each other brought life's aftermath,
With uncorroded heart.

The music of the seasons touched the strain,
Bird-joy and laugh of flowers,

The orchard's bounty and the yellow grain,
Snow storm and sunny showers;

And secrets of the soul that doubts and yearns

And gropes in regions dim,

Till, meeting Christ with raptured eye, discerns
Its perfect life in Him.

So, thinking of the Master and his tears,
And how the birds are kept,

I sank in arms that folded me from fears,
And like an infant, slept.

Horatio Nelson Powers [1826-1890]

ITYLUS

SWALLOW, my sister, O sister swallow,
How can thine heart be full of the spring?

A thousand summers are over and dead. What hast thou found in the spring to follow? What hast thou found in thine heart to sing? What wilt thou do when the summer is shed?

Itylus

O swallow, sister, O fair swift swallow,
Why wilt thou fly after spring to the south,

The soft south whither thine heart is set?
Shall not the grief of the old time follow?
Shall not the song thereof cleave to thy mouth?
Hast thou forgotten ere I forget?

Sister, my sister, O fleet sweet swallow,
Thy way is long to the sun and the south;
But I, fulfilled of my heart's desire,

Shedding my song upon height, upon hollow,
From tawny body and sweet small mouth
Feed the heart of the night with fire.

I the nightingale all spring through,
O swallow, sister, O changing swallow,

All spring through till the spring be done,
Clothed with the light of the night on the dew,
Sing, while the hours and the wild birds follow,
Take flight and follow and find the sun.

Sister, my sister, O soft light swallow,

1577

Though all things feast in the spring's guest-chamber, How hast thou heart to be glad thereof yet?

For where thou fliest I shall not follow,

Till life forget and death remember,
Till thou remember and I forget.

Swallow, my sister, O singing swallow,
I know not how thou hast heart to sing.
Hast thou the heart? is it all passed over?

Thy lord the summer is good to follow,
And fair the feet of thy lover the spring:

But what wilt thou say to the spring thy lover?

O swallow, sister, O fleeting swallow,

My heart in me is a molten ember

And over my head the waves have met.

But thou wouldst tarry or I would follow
Could I forget or thou remember,

Couldst thou remember and I forget.

O sweet stray sister, O shifting swallow,
The heart's division divideth us.

Thy heart is light as a leaf of a tree;
But mine goes forth among sea-gulfs hollow
To the place of the slaying of Itylus,
The feast of Daulis, the Thracian sea.

O swallow, sister, O rapid swallow,
I pray thee sing not a little space.

Are not the roofs and the lintels wet?
The woven web that was plain to follow,
The small slain body, the flower-like face,
Can I remember if thou forget?

O sister, sister, thy first-begotten!

The hands that cling and the feet that follow, The voice of the child's blood crying yet, Who hath remembered me? who hath forgotten? Thou hast forgotten, O summer swallow, But the world shall end when I forget. Algernon Charles Swinburne [1837-1909]

THE THROSTLE

"SUMMER is coming, summer is coming, I know it, I know it, I know it.

Light again, leaf again, life again, love again,"

Yes, my wild little Poet.

Sing the new year in under the blue.

Last year you sang it as gladly.

"New, new, new, new!" Is it then so new

That you should carol so madly?

"Love again, song again, nest again, young again,”"

Never a prophet so crazy!

And hardly a daisy as yet, little friend,

See, there is hardly a daisy.

Joy-Month

"Here again, here, here, here, happy year!"

O warble unchidden, unbidden!
Summer is coming, is coming, my dear,

And all the winters are hidden.

1579

Alfred Tennyson [1809-1892]

OVERFLOW

HUSH!

With sudden gush

As from a fountain, sings in yonder bush

The Hermit Thrush.

Hark!

Did ever Lark

With swifter scintillations fling the spark

That fires the dark?

Again,

Like April rain

Of mist and sunshine mingled, moves the strain
O'er hill and plain.

Strong

As love, O Song,

In flame or torrent sweep through Life along,

O'er grief and wrong.

John Banister Tabb [1845-1909]

JOY-MONTH

OH, hark to the brown thrush! hear how he sings!
How he pours the dear pain of his gladness!
What a gush! and from out what golden springs!
What a rage of how sweet madness!

And golden the buttercup blooms by the way,
A song of the joyous ground;

While the melody rained from yonder spray
Is a blossom in fields of sound.