Poems (Mary Coleridge)/Poem 162

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CLXII
Low-flying swallow, tho' the sky be fair,
    The sunshine soft,
Thou seekest not with love the upper air,
    Soaring aloft;
Thy sharp and gleamy wing goes flashing by me
Thy dusky white and blue thou'lt not deny me!

Thy nest's a bit of mine—thy little home
    Set in the eaves.
When roses leave the wall, where wilt thou roam,
    When summer leaves?
Not lightly, flying friend, can I forego thee,
The longest day is all too short to know thee!

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