What tells the swallows that a house is in the making,
Far away from any town, among the whispering leaves?
Saying, "Good news, a home! Fly there when spring is waking,
There'll be room for many nests beneath those shady eaves."
With the first springtime come the swallows without number,
Chattering in the greying dawn, and like a flying cloud
Sweeping round the roof at dusk before they sink to slumber—
How did they scent the new-built home from out the city's crowd?