O swallow, thou art come at last!
The rain is sweet upon the leaves
Now Winter's wrath is overpast,
A wreath of blossom April weaves.
Swift through the air thy light wings pass,
Young willows droop their garlands green
Over the tranquil pool, thy glass
Where silver lilies float serene,
O songless bird! The cuckoo sings,
Filling the valley with his voice;
The larks, on their exultant wings,
In the blue deep of skies rejoice.
There is more music in thy flight,
Through sun or showers, swift and strong,
A creature of the air and light
Thou art, the very soul of song.