curated by Adam Fitzgerald

Thursday, April 12, 2007

O Swallow, Swallow

O Swallow, Swallow, flying, flying South,
Fly to her, and fall upon her gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her what I tell to thee.

O tell her, Swallow, thou that knowest each,
That bright and fierce and fickle is the South,
And dark and true and tender,
Dark and true and tender is the North.

O Swallow, Swallow, if I could follow, and light
Upon her lattice, I would pipe and trill,
Would pipe and trill and chirp and twitter twenty million loves.

O were I thou that she might take me in,
And lay me on her bosom, and her heart
Would rock the snowy cradle till I died.

Why ling'reth she to clothe her heart with love,
Delaying as the tender ash delays
To clothe herself, when all the woods are green?

O tell her Swallow, that thy brood is flown:
O say to her, I do but wanton in the South,
But wanton in the South,
But in the North, in the North long since my nest was made.

O tell her, brief is life but love is long,
Brief is life but love is long,
And brief the sun of summer in the North,
And brief the moon of beauty in the South.

O Swallow, flying from the golden woods,
Fly to her, and pipe and woo, and make her mine,
And tell her, tell her, that I follow thee.

Tell her, tell her that I follow thee;
Fly to her and pipe and woo her,
Pipe and woo her and make her mine.
And tell her, tell her that I follow, follow thee!

by Alfred Lord Tennyson (1809 - 1892)