A Poem For A Tuesday

Tuesday, March 31, 2015

Swallows
Leonora Speyer

They dip their wings in the sunset,
They dash against the air
As if to break themselves upon its stillness:
In every movement, too swift to count,
Is a revelry of indecision,
A furtive delight in trees they do not desire
And in grasses that shall not know their weight.

They hover and lean toward the meadow
With little edged cries;
And then,
As if frightened by the earth's nearness,
They seek the high austerity of evening's sky
And swirl into its depth.

No comments:

Post a Comment