The last soft feather on its ample floor,
When wicked hand, or chance, again laid waste,
And wrought the ruin o’er.
“But still her heart she kept,
And toiled again; and last night, hearing calls,
I looked, and lo! three little swallows slept
Within the earth-made walls.
“What truth is here, O man!
Hath hope been smitten in its early dawn!
Have clouds o’ercast thy purpose, trust or plan?