I am fond of the swallow--I learn from her flight, <br />Had I skill to improve it, a lesson of love: <br />How seldom on earth do we see her alight! <br />She dwells in the skies, she is ever above. <br /> <br />It is on the wing that she takes her repose, <br />Suspended and poised in the regions of air, <br />'Tis not in our fields that her sustenance grows, <br />It is winged like herself--'tis ethereal fare. <br /> <br />She comes in the spring, all the summer she stays, <br />And, dreading the cold, still follows the sun-- <br />So, true to our love, we should covet his rays, <br />And the place where he shines not immediately shun. <br /> <br />Our light should be love, and our nourishment prayer; <br />It is dangerous food that we find upon earth; <br />The fruit of this world is beset with a snare, <br />In itself it is hurtful, as vile in its birth. <br /> <br />'Tis rarely, if ever, she settles below, <br />And only when building a nest for her young; <br />Were it not for her brood, she would never bestow <br />A thought upon anything filthy as dung. <br /> <br />Let us leave it ourselves ('tis a mortal abode), <br />To bask every moment in infinite love; <br />Let us fly the dark winter, and follow the road <br />That leads to the dayspring appearing above.<br /><br />William Cowper<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-swallow-3/
