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184
A SHEAF GLEANED
WHAT THE SWALLOWS SAY.
Leaves not green, but red and gold,
Fall and dot the yellow grass,
Morn and eve the wind is cold,
Sunny days are gone, alas!
Showers lift bubbles on the pool,
Peasants harvest-work despatch;
Winter comes apace to rule.
Swallows cluster on the thatch:
Hundreds, hundreds of the race
Gathered, hold a high debate;
One says, 'Athens is my place.
Thither shall I emigrate.
'Every year I go and build
On the famous Parthenon,
Thus the cornice-hole is filled,
Mark of an insulting gun.'
'Smyrna suits my humbler needs,'
Says a second, twittering gay;
'Hadjis there count amber beads,
Sitting in the sun's bright ray.
