The First Swallow
The gorse is yellow on the heath;
The banks of speedwell flowers are gay;
The oaks are budding, and beneath,
The hawthorn soon will bear the wreath,
The silver wreath of May.
The welcome guest of settled spring,
The swallow, too, is come at last
Just at sunset, when thrushes sing,
I saw her dash with rapid wing,
And hail'd her as she past.
Come, summer visitant, attach
To my reed roof your nest of clay,
And let my ear your music catch,
Low twittering underneath the thatch,
At the gray dawn of day.
—Charlotte Smith.