SONGS OF THE SWALLOW.
41
Before the bloom of the rose is the tender green of the leaf; Not rash is he who wisely followeth patient Nature's ways,The lily-bud of love should be swathed in a silken sheaf, Unfolding at will to summer bloom in the warm and perfect days."
So silently sailed the early sun, through clouds of fleecy white; So stood we in dreamy silence, enwrapped in a tender spell;But the pulses of soft Spring air were quickened to fresh delight, For I read in his eye the story sweet, he longed, yet feared to tell;It spoke from his heart to mine, and needed no word from his mouth, And high o'er our heads rang out the happy song of the swallow;It cried to the sunshine and beauty and bloom of the South, Exultingly carolling clear, "Oh, follow me—oh, follow."
SPRING SONG OF THE SWALLOW,
Oh, the days are growing longer;So rang the jubilant song of the swallow; I come a-bringing beauty into the land,
