THE SAD YEARS
THE SWALLOW
How I hate the sparrows, the sparrows, the sparrows.
In and out and round the house all the live-long day,
Chirping shrill and fussy birds, with their silly petty minds,
Chittering and chattering, yet having naught to say.
How I love the swallows, the swallows, the swallows,
Coming from a far land of minaret and dome.
I have got a small room, like a clinging cosy nest,
Built upon the gable-end of my country home.
On its wall the swallows house, who can find its secret door?
Such a cunning nursery, made with Eastern art.
I can hear the baby ones, in their first, swift, troubled flight,
Giving little frightened cries as they swoop and dart.
And I hear the swallow-folk telling tales of foreign climes,
In a low sweet lullaby long before the day.
