On Brevity and The Urgency Of Life
The Princess: O Swallow
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
O Swallow, Swallow, flying,
flying South,
Fly to her, and fall upon her
gilded eaves,
And tell her, tell her, what I
tell to thee.
O tell her, Swallow, thou that
knowest each,
That bright and fierce and
fickle is the South,
And dark and true and tender
is the North.
O Swallow, Swallow, if I could
follow, and light
Upon her lattice, I would pipe
and trill,
And cheep and twitter twenty
million loves.
O were I thou that she might
take me in,
And lay me on her bosom, and
her heart
Would rock the snowy cradle
till I died.
Why lingereth she to clothe
her heart with love,
Delaying as the tender ash
delays
To clothe herself, when all
the woods are green?
O tell her, Swallow, that thy
brood is flown:
Say to her, I do but wanton in
the South,
But in the North long since my
nest is made.
O tell her, brief is life but
love is long,
And brief the sun of summer in
the North,
And brief the moon of beauty
in the South.
O Swallow, flying from the
golden woods,
Fly to her, and pipe and woo
her, and make her mine,
And tell her, tell her, that I
follow thee.
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