  Tossing, swirling, swept by the wind, Beaten abaft by the rain, The swallows high in the sodden sky Circle oft and again. They rise and sink and drift and swing, Twitterless in the chill; A-haste, for stark is the coming dark Over the wet of the hill. Wildly, swiftly, at last they stream Into their chimney home. A livid gash in the west, a crash— Then silence, sadness, gloam. |
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