 | The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard |  |
SICILIAN PASTORAL.
The nests in spring were full of bluish eggs,
In summer full of birds: now autumn comes
The nests are empty, and the birds are gone.
In summer full of birds: now autumn comes
The nests are empty, and the birds are gone.
The soft white clouds are flecked, the sky is bound
With belts of swallows, stretching from the west
To where the east is girded in with haze.
With belts of swallows, stretching from the west
To where the east is girded in with haze.
Stay, swallows, stay! The land is near and bright,
The sea is far, and dark, and perilous,
And all beyond is alien, and unknown.
The sea is far, and dark, and perilous,
And all beyond is alien, and unknown.
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Why should ye fly so soon? Why fly at all,
When ye might stay with us the long year through,
And be in deathless summer all the time?
When ye might stay with us the long year through,
And be in deathless summer all the time?
Here all the vales are full of dewy flowers,
The orchard plots are full of juicy fruits,
The endless, purple woods are full of balm.
The orchard plots are full of juicy fruits,
The endless, purple woods are full of balm.
Stay, swallows, stay! The flowers and fruit and balm
Will fade and die, when ye have left the isle,
And winds will moan the absence of your songs.
Will fade and die, when ye have left the isle,
And winds will moan the absence of your songs.
Stay, swallows, stay! and hear the last year's birds:
“We flew o'er many an isle where summer broods,
But found no summer-land like Sicily.”
“We flew o'er many an isle where summer broods,
But found no summer-land like Sicily.”
They will not hear—we waste our words in air:
We might as well go chatter to the crows:
The crows would hear us, though they meant to go.
We might as well go chatter to the crows:
The crows would hear us, though they meant to go.
Go, swallows, go! and be it all your doom
To bear the memory of what ye leave—
For memory will cancel half the sin:
To bear the memory of what ye leave—
For memory will cancel half the sin:
And be it all your punishment to sing
In tropic islands of Sicilian sweets,
And shame the tropic birds with summer songs.
In tropic islands of Sicilian sweets,
And shame the tropic birds with summer songs.
| The poems of Richard Henry Stoddard | |