Page:The Sad Years.djvu/59



OW I hate the sparrows, the sparrows, the sparrows. In and out and round the house all the live-long day, Chirping shrill and fussy birds, with their silly petty minds, Chittering and chattering, yet having naught to say.

How I love the swallows, the swallows, the swallows, Coming from a far land of minaret and dome. I have got a small room, like a clinging cosy nest, Built upon the gable-end of my country home.

On its wall the swallows house, who can find its secret door? Such a cunning nursery, made with Eastern art. I can hear the baby ones, in their first, swift, troubled flight, Giving little frightened cries as they swoop and dart.

And I hear the swallow-folk telling tales of foreign climes, In a low sweet lullaby long before the day. [51]