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The Swallow
#1
The Swallow

Had I, my love declared, the tireless wing
That wafts the swallow to her northern skies,
I would not, sheer within the rich surprise
Of full-blown Summer, like the swallow, fling

My coyer being; but would follow Spring,
Melodious consort, as she daily flies,
Apace with suns that o’er new woodlands rise
Each morn – with rains her gentler stages bring.

My pinions should beat music with her own;
Her smiles and odors should delight me ever,
Gliding, with measured progress, from the zone

Where golden seas receive the mighty river,
Unto yon lichened cliffs, whose ridges sever
Our Norseland from the Arctoc surge’s moan.
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