Poems (Blake)/One Swallow

by Mary Elizabeth Blake

ONE SWALLOW.

The day was gray and dark and chill;
 Though May had come to meet us,
So closely April lingered still,
 She had no heart to greet us;
When, with a swift and sudden flight,
 Wind-blown o'er hill and hollow,
Two gray wings swept across my sight,
 And lo! the first wild swallow.

"Alas, fair bird! thy little breast,
 That cuts the air so fleetly,
Should still have pressed its Southern nest
 Till June was piping sweetly.
In spite of cheery song and voice,
 Thou brave and blithe new-comer,
I cannot in thy joy rejoice,—
 One swallow makes no summer."

Thus, in my thought I fain would say;—
 Meantime, on swift wing speeding,
Its wild and winning roundelay
 The bird sang on unheeding;
Of odorous fields and drowsy noons,
 Of slow tides landward creeping,
Of woodlands thrilled with jocund tunes,
 Of soft airs hushed and sleeping,—

He sang of waving forest heights
 With strong green boughs upspringing;
Of faint stars pale with drowsy lights,
 In dusky heavens swinging;
Of nests high-hung in cottage eaves,
 Of yellow cornfields growing,
And, through the long, slim, fluttering leaves,
 The sleepy winds a-blowing;

He sang until my soul took heed
 Of warm, soft-falling showers,
Of dells high-piled with tangled leaves,
 And gay with tangled flowers;
Of life, and love, and hope's bright crew,
 This brave and blithe new-comer,—
And so—and so—at last I knew
 One swallow made the summer!