The Book of Odes, by L. Cranmer-Byng, [1908]
She sought her native land again.
The swallow takes its ragged flight.
We went together day and night,
Till parting drew her from my sight
And the tears fell down like rain.
She went her native land to seek.
Now up, now down the swallow flies.
And oh!—the last of tender ties,
The form that fades from aching eyes
And the tears coursing down my cheek.
Around, about the swallows dar
She fared into a far countree,
And when I vainly sought to see
The empty landscape mocked at me,
And great grief settled on my heart.