To a Swallow that Must Return (3/07)

This poem requires some background. This is the only poem that I've posted that was written for a school assignment, but I'm rather fond of it. The premise is that the Romantic poet Byron wrote this to my great-great-great-great-grandmother, and it was just discovered in some old papers. Byron spent much of his time in Italy, as did many poets of that era, even though he was British.


To a Swallow that Must Return

The wind turned cooler as the clock
Wound towards its wintry end.
The sea’s warm air by Naples’ dock
Did battle with that wind.

You came without a warning sound,
A silent flap of wings.
And gazed with eyes both sharp and round,
Too foreign yet to sing.

I reached my hand to lend that aid,
One new arriving needs,
You gladly seized the proffered strand,
And pulled yourself towards me.

For two months now, my constant friend,
My heart has been with yours,
But know I now, your wings will rend
that love on distant shores.

The cold that grips that isle of yours,
The Thames a sheet of ice,
Must surely melt and in those hours,
Your heart it will entice.

So with the coming of the Spring,
The swallow turns its back
Upon the most beloved thing,
To trace again that track.