The Belated Swallow

And the birds of the air have nests.     Belated swallow, whither flying?     The day is dead, the light is dying,     The night draws near:     Where is thy nest, slow put together,     Soft-lined with moss and downy feather,     For shelter-place in stress of weather     And darkness drear?     Past, past, above the lighted city,     Unknowing of my wondering pity,     Seaward she flies.     Alas, poor bird! what rude awaking     Has driven thee forth, when storms are breaking,     And frightened gulls the waves forsaking     With warning cries?     Alas, my soul! while leaves are greenest     Thy heedless head thou fondly screenest     Beneath thy wing.     How bravely thou thy plumage wearest,     How lightly thou lifes burthen bearest,     How happily thy home preparest,     In careless spring!     Yet Destiny the hour may bring thee     When none of all that sing can sing thee     To joy or rest!     When all the winds that blow shall blow thee;     And, ere the floods shall overflow thee,     The sunlight linger but to show thee     Thy shattered nest!