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167

To The Swallow

Hail:

Bird of passage, Gentle Swallow
Speeding over on the wing
Over hill and through the hollow
Welcome harbinger of Spring.

Some latent thought of trysting time
Recalls thee to our Island shore
I would I knew that fovored clime,
To which you haste when Summer's o'er

Tell us of that land afar.
From whence you come with pinions swift,
By instinct led, your guiding star:
Our great creator's priceless gift.

Mayhap thy artless tale would be,
Of Africa's land, and sunny hours
Of perils o'er a stormy sea,
To reach once more this land of ours.

We greet thee then, a summer guest,
From olive groves and Southern skies
Safe in your ivy-curtained nest
[Your, struck through] A little brood shall be [the, struck through] your prize.

At eventide when all is still,
Again We'll watch [thee in, struck through] thy timeless flight
And see thee round our window-sill
With quivering wings so soft and light.

Robert Suggate

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kishman

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