  O swallow, thou art come at last! The rain is sweet upon the leaves Now Winter's wrath is overpast, A wreath of blossom April weaves. Swift through the air thy light wings pass, Young willows droop their garlands green Over the tranquil pool, thy glass Where silver lilies float serene, O songless bird! The cuckoo sings, Filling the valley with his voice; The larks, on their exultant wings, In the blue deep of skies rejoice. There is more music in thy flight, Through sun or showers, swift and strong, A creature of the air and light Thou art, the very soul of song. |
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