by Elizabeth

A swallow landed at the landlord’s golden gate:

Svelte-seeming swallow, small begotten king,

A thing to glory in so many miniatures of spring

Sprung all to blooming in bedappling beds,

Heads of the hyacinth, so much overfed, looked longing

On high to the highriding Sun of whom they were sons;

They were blushing the flush of a mother,

They were hushing to hear the swallow their Brother!

Their Brother winged wide to the goldenwrought gate

Forespeaking the sounds of a highmountain place:

The trees were bowing their leaves to the song!

The swallow was sweeping the stone hearts along!

The swallow, oh swallow! – inviolable grace! –

Stood steady straight, straight steady stood, standing at the gate.