XCIX

Over the wheat-field, Over the hill-crest, Swoops and is gone The beat of a wild wing, Brushing the pine-tops, Bending the poppies, Hurrying Northward With golden summer.

What premonition, O purple swallow, Told thee the happy Hour of migration? Hark! On the threshold (Hush, flurried heart in me!), Was there a footfall? Did no one enter?

Soon will a shepherd In rugged Dacia, Folding his gentle Ewes in the twilight, Lifting a level Gaze from the sheepfold, Say to his fellows, “Lo, it is springtime.”

This very hour In Mitylene, Will not a young girl Say to her lover, Lifting her moon-white Arms to enlace him, Ere the glad sigh comes, “Lo, it is lovetime!”