So silently sailed the early sun, through clouds of fleecy white;
  So stood we in dreamy silence, enwrapped in a tender spell;
But the pulses of soft Spring air were quickened to fresh delight,
  For I read in his eye the story sweet, he longed, yet feared
        to tell;
It spoke from his heart to mine, and needed no word from his mouth,
  And high o’er our heads rang out the happy song of the swallow;
It cried to the sunshine and beauty and bloom of the South,
  Exultingly carolling clear, “Oh, follow me—­oh, follow.”

SPRING SONG OF THE SWALLOW.

Oh, the days are growing longer;
So rang the jubilant song of the swallow;
I come a-bringing beauty into the land,
The sky of the West grows warm and yellow,
Oh, gladness comes with my light-winged band,
And the days are growing longer.

Oh, the days are growing longer,
The wavy gleam of fluttering wings,
Touching the silent earth so lightly,
Will wake all the sleeping, beautiful things,
The world will glow so brightly—­brightly;
And the days are growing longer.

Oh, the days are growing longer,
All the rivulets dumb will laugh, and run
Over the meadows with dancing feet;
Following the silvery plough of the sun,
Will be furrows filled with wild flowers sweet: 
And the days are growing longer.

Oh, the days are growing longer;
Over whispering streams will rushes lean,
To answer the waves’ soft murmurous call;
The lily will bend from its watch-tower green,
To list to the lark’s low madrigal,
And the days are growing longer.

Oh, the days are growing longer;
When they lengthen to ripe and perfect prime,
Then, oh, then, I will build my happy nest;
And all in that pleasant and balmy time,
There never will be a bird so blest;
And the days are growing longer.

* * * * *

Summer.

Now sinks the Summer sun into the sea;
  Sure never such a sunset shone as this,
  That on its golden wing has borne such bliss;
              Dear Love to thee and me.

Ah, life was drear and lonely, missing thee,
  Though what my loss I did not then divine;
  But all is past—­the sweet words, thou art mine,
              Make bliss for thee and me.

How swells the light breeze o’er the blossoming lea,
  Sure never winds swept past so sweet and low,
  No lonely, unblest future waiteth now;
              Dear Love for thee and me.

Look upward o’er the glowing West, and see,
  Surely the star of evening never shone
  With such a holy radiance—­oh, my own,
              Heaven smiles on thee and me.

SUMMER SONG OF THE SWALLOW.