Going South
A little grey swallow,
I fled to the vales
Of the nightingales
And the haunts of Apollo.
Behind me lie the sheer white cliffs, the hollow
Green waves that break at home, the northern gales,
The oaks above the homesteads in the vales,
For all my home is far, and cannot follow.
O nightingale voices!
O lemons in flower!
O branches of laurel!
You all are here, but ah not here my choice is:
Fain would I pluck one pink-vein'd bloom of sorrel.
Or watch the wrens build in our hazel bower.
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