THE swallows flew in the curves of an eight Above the river-gleam In the wet June's last beam: Like little crossbows animate The swallows flew in the curves of an eight Above the river-gleam. Planing up shavings of crystal spray A moor-hen darted out From the bank thereabout, And through the stream-shine ripped his way; Planing up shavings of crystal spray A moor-hen darted out. Closed were the kingcups; and the mead Dripped in monotonous green, Though the day's morning sheen Had shown it golden and honeybee'd; Closed were the kingcups; and the mead Dripped in monotonous green. And never I turned my head, alack, While these things met my gaze Through the pane's drop-drenched glaze, To see the more behind my back.... O never I turned, but let, alack, These less things hold my gaze! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...FISHERMAN IN SONGKHLA by KAREN SWENSON THE BLACK REGIMENT by GEORGE HENRY BOKER FOUR LITTLE FOXES by LEW SARETT SHE PASSED THIS WAY by ANNA M. ACKERMANN THANKS BE TO GOD by JANIE ALFORD THE WHEELING WORLD by JAMES ROBERT ALLEN |