“Out in the meadows the young grass springs，Shivering with sap，”said the larks，“and weShoot into air with our strong young wings，Spirally up over level and lea；Come，O Swallows，and fly with us Now that horizons are luminous！
Evening and morning the world of light，Spreading and kindling，is infinite！”
Far away，by the sea in the south，
The hills of olive and slopes of fern Whiten and glow in the sun’s long drouth，Under the heavens that beam and burn；And all the swallows were gather‘d there Flitting about in the fragrant air，And heard no sound from the larks，but flew Flashing under the blinding blue.
Out of the depths of their soft rich throats Languidly fluted the thrushes，and said：
“Musical thought in the mild air floats，Spring is coming and winter is dead！
Come，O Swallows，and stir the air，For the buds are all bursting unaware，And the drooping eaves and the elmtrees long To hear the sound of your low sweet song.”
Over the roofs of the white Algiers，Flashingly shadowing the bright bazaar，Flitted the swallows，and not one hearsThe call of the thrushes from far，from far；Sigh’d the thrushes；then，all at once，Broke out singing the old sweet tones，Singing the bridal of sap and shoot，The tree‘s slow life between root and fruit.
But just when the dingles of April flowers Shine with the earliest daffodils，When，before sunrise，the cold clear hours Gleam with a promise that noon fulfils，Deep in the leafage the cuckoo cried，Perch’d on a spray by a rivuletside，“Swallows，O Swallows，come back again To swoop and herald the April rain.”
And something awoke in the slumbering heart Of the alien birds in their African air，And they paused，and alighted，and twitter‘d apart，And met in the broad white dreamy square；And the sad slavewoman，who lifted upFrom the fountain her broadlipp’d earthen cup，Said to herself，with a weary sigh，“Tomorrow the swallows will northward fly！”
