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XCIX


Over the wheat field,
  1
Over the hill-crest,
Swoops and is gone
The beat of a wild wing,
Brushing the pine-tops,
  5
Bending the poppies,
Hurrying Northward
With golden summer.

What premonition,
  9
O purple swallow,
Told thee the happy
Hour of migration?
Hark! On the threshold
  13
(Hush, flurried heart in me!),
Was there a footfall?
Did no one enter?

Soon will a shepherd
  17
In rugged Dacia,
Folding his gentle
Ewes in the twilight,
Lifting a level
  21
Gaze from the sheepfold,
Say to his fellow,
"Lo, it is springtime."

This very hour
  25
In Mitylene,
Will not a young girl
Say to her lover,
Lifting her moon-white
  29
Arms to enlace him,
Ere the glad sigh comes,
"Lo, it is lovetime!"







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