THE SWALLOW is flying over, <br />But he will not come to me; <br />He flits, my daring rover, <br />From land to land, from sea to sea; <br />Where hot Bermuda’s reef <br />Its barrier lifts to fortify the shore, <br />Above the surf’s wild roar <br />He darts as swiftly o’er,— <br />But he who heard his cry of spring <br />Hears that no more, heeds not his wing. <br /> <br />How bright the skies that dally <br />Along day’s cheerful arch, <br />And paint the sunset valley! <br />How redly buds the larch! <br />Blackbirds are singing, <br />Clear hylas ringing, <br />Over the meadow the frogs proclaim <br />The coming of Spring to boy and dame, <br />But not to me,— <br />Nor thee! <br /> <br />And golden crowfoot’s shining near, <br />Spring everywhere that shoots ’t is clear, <br />A wail in the wind is all I hear; <br />A voice of woe for a lover’s loss, <br />A motto for a travelling cross,— <br />And yet it is mean to mourn for thee, <br />In the form of bird or blossom or bee. <br /> <br />Cold are the sods of the valley to-day <br />Where thou art sleeping, <br />That took thee back to thy native clay; <br />Cold,—if above thee the grass is peeping <br />And the patient sunlight creeping, <br />While the bluebird sits on the locust-bough <br />Whose shadow is painted across thy brow, <br />And carols his welcome so sad and sweet <br />To the Spring that comes and Kisses his feet.<br /><br />William Ellery Channing<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tears-in-spring-lament-for-thoreau/
