Jonathan Dove - O Swallow, Swallow

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 shе to clothe her heart with lovе
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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