| |
| MY roof is hardly picturesque— | |
| It lacks the pleasant reddish brown | |
| Of the tiled house-tops out of town, | |
| And cannot even hope to match | |
| The modest beauty of the thatch: | 5 |
| Nor is it Gothic or grotesque— | |
| No gable breaks, with quaint design, | |
| Its hard monotony of line, | |
| And not a gargoyle on the spout | |
| Brings any latent beauty out: | 10 |
| Its only charm—I hold it high— | |
| Is just its nearness to the sky. | |
| |
| But yet it looks o’er field and tree, | |
| And in the air | |
| One breathes up there | 15 |
| A faint, fresh whiff suggests the sea. | |
| And that is why, this afternoon, | |
| The topmost slates above the leads | |
| Were thick with little bobbing heads, | |
| And frisking tails, and wings that soon | 20 |
| Shall spread, ah me! | |
| For lands where summer lingers fair, | |
| Far otherwhere. | |
| I heard a muttering, | |
| Saw a fluttering, | 25 |
| Pointed wings went skimming past, | |
| White breasts shimmered by as fast, | |
| Wheel and bound and spurt and spring— | |
| All the air seemed all on wing. | |
| Then, like dropping clouds of leaves, | 30 |
| Down they settled on the eaves— | |
| All the swallows of the region, | |
| In a number almost legion— | |
| Frisked about, but did not stop | |
| Till they reached the ridge atop. | 35 |
| |
| Then what chirping, what commotion! | |
| What they said I have no notion, | |
| But one cannot err in stating | |
| There was very much debating. | |
| First a small loquacious swallow | 40 |
| Seemed to move a resolution; | |
| And another seemed to follow, | |
| Seconding the subject-matter | |
| With a trick of elocution. | |
| After that the chirp and chatter | 45 |
| Boded some more serious end, meant | |
| For a quarrelsome amendment; | |
| Bobbing heads and flapping wings, | |
| Eloquent of many things, | |
| Gathered into lively rows, | 50 |
| “Pros” and “cons” and “ayes” and “noes.” | |
| As the clatter reached my ears, | |
| Now it sounded like “hear, hears”; | |
| But again a note of faction, | |
| With a clash of beaks in action, | 55 |
| Gave an aspect to the scene | |
| Not exactly quite serene. | |
| Fretful clusters flew away, | |
| All too much incensed to stay; | |
| Wheeled about, then took a tack, | 60 |
| Halted and came darting back. | |
| Others, eager to be heard, | |
| Perched upon the chimney-top, | |
| Chirped, as they would never stop, | |
| Loud and fluent every bird. | 65 |
| |
| But the turmoil passed away: | |
| How it happened I can’t say,— | |
| All I know is, there was peace. | |
| Whether some more thoughtful bird | |
| Said the quarrelling was absurd, | 70 |
| And implored that it should cease; | |
| Whether what appeared contention | |
| Was a difference not worth mention, | |
| Just some mere exchange of words | |
| Not uncommon among birds, | 75 |
| I have only my own notion, | |
| You may make a nearer guess; | |
| All at once the noise was over, | |
| Not a bird was now a rover, | |
| Some one seemed to put the motion, | 80 |
| And the little heads bobbed “Yes.” | |
| |
| Oh, that sudden resolution, | |
| So unanimously carried! | |
| Would they ’d longer talked and tarried, | |
| With their fiery elocution! | 85 |
| What it bodes I cannot doubt; | |
| They were planning when to go, | |
| And they have settled it, I know; | |
| Some chill morning, when the sun | |
| Does not venture to shine out, | 90 |
| I shall miss them—overnight | |
| They will all have taken flight, | |
| And the summer will be gone. | |
| |
